tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69008921585943709632024-03-12T16:35:17.865-07:00reneekahntheartistRenee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.comBlogger196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-88744801993122952152023-10-13T11:49:00.002-07:002023-10-13T13:48:19.897-07:00Post #195: A Watched Pot Never Boils<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7tGT2iU-pcE8Kvs0Y5tv44CClIHHKjF6Rhx7UrZdrAEZ4twyVrNL_2RsltDr-mtV3aIaPTScxHY-0jA5qS5LIH0xhzjUsFk1mlSYAF6Xpr1NFOEtiphMWB3L8fsKG6q74L8Lpq962XyU6RiM7LYWKypyc5jVhWQt47ZbAQGkKzuXPhv4p6Lns7aXgF0/s1000/195-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="1000" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt7tGT2iU-pcE8Kvs0Y5tv44CClIHHKjF6Rhx7UrZdrAEZ4twyVrNL_2RsltDr-mtV3aIaPTScxHY-0jA5qS5LIH0xhzjUsFk1mlSYAF6Xpr1NFOEtiphMWB3L8fsKG6q74L8Lpq962XyU6RiM7LYWKypyc5jVhWQt47ZbAQGkKzuXPhv4p6Lns7aXgF0/w424-h275/195-1.jpg" width="424" /></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Many years ago, I rented space at the former Yale & Towne Lock
Factory for the Historic Neighborhood Preservation Program, Inc., a
nonprofit I ran for almost forty years. Since I was actually an artist
in real life, I soon made friends with the dozens of painters,
sculptors, dancers and photographers who rented the generous,
high-ceilinged lofts, often (illegally) making them their home. One such
friend (still is) was a photographer, Bob Baldridge who rented prime
space overlooking Long Island Sound. He fitted up a bathroom and a tiny
kitchen that served his needs. Along the way, he even acquired a
girlfriend, the wealthy but insecure granddaughter of a famous artist.
She had tried out several careers and was at that time exploring whether
she wanted to be a celebrity chef. She convinced Bob to allow her to
use his space for a dinner party that would allow her to try out her new
career. Bob borrowed chairs and tables and a giant cook pot. I agreed
to co-sponsor. A date was set. Invitations went out. Money for cheap
wine was obtained and a supply of paper cups and plates. What could go
wrong? Who couldn’t boil spaghetti and heat up sauce?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIFUH4yKXNmFqgS49hd9AMvHbcVs_iT7aLMX_GkKu4ENEBiqjAOROViAOUZaSk8rXlLKqB6SEsCwv05j6QXqdf96rQ2cGBhyMpfpgNtiSXYq6mxMDIN9KqgWNF9NLlS2Zin7iHFXWxVRdfep4T1ohmhp__Wg4iu6-sZDyQFJUudjLDw7pk3AfPTUcGiPM/s1000/195-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1000" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIFUH4yKXNmFqgS49hd9AMvHbcVs_iT7aLMX_GkKu4ENEBiqjAOROViAOUZaSk8rXlLKqB6SEsCwv05j6QXqdf96rQ2cGBhyMpfpgNtiSXYq6mxMDIN9KqgWNF9NLlS2Zin7iHFXWxVRdfep4T1ohmhp__Wg4iu6-sZDyQFJUudjLDw7pk3AfPTUcGiPM/w377-h326/195-2.jpg" width="377" /></a></div><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;">
By 6 pm Bob’s girlfriend had put up gallons of water and a pot of store
bought sauce on his makeshift stove. A small crowd had begun to gather
in the long hallway outside his door. Bob decided not to let anyone in
until the food was ready, but he was happy to pour endless paper cups o
wine to keep the party happy. Unfortunately, we had never inquired as to
how many people were coming. The word of the event had apparently
spread far and wide and before long, a line extended for a hundred or
more feet down the hall. Bob kept handing out endless paper cups of wine
while the chef struggled to get the spaghetti water to boil.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32VyMm_No4Eto_4U00nkXlbiLxZ0oMZmlxYUTuGcg2YWhFoRXJlMyRvJ5ejs1q9TeKKSA0f68B7E4dM19BbxC259g2RmhAEwJPs8e9BpDPPJVvDDBsL5qFEUgqbVLwQ2tUzna9DLtkWKklE63x1ijfW-p0w3M_Wspl8Jw3AZ7LfvPUC8mtMWhl6q8n9k/s2311/195-4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1462" data-original-width="2311" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi32VyMm_No4Eto_4U00nkXlbiLxZ0oMZmlxYUTuGcg2YWhFoRXJlMyRvJ5ejs1q9TeKKSA0f68B7E4dM19BbxC259g2RmhAEwJPs8e9BpDPPJVvDDBsL5qFEUgqbVLwQ2tUzna9DLtkWKklE63x1ijfW-p0w3M_Wspl8Jw3AZ7LfvPUC8mtMWhl6q8n9k/w472-h298/195-4.jpg" width="472" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">
<br />It took almost five hours for dinner to be served. The line outside
Bob’s door had by now reached into the adjacent building. Raucous,
drunken laughter echoed through the old factory walls. Bob opened bottle
after bottle of wine while his chef struggled with her makeshift stove.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />You’ve all heard the adage “A watched pot never boils”? Well it’s true.
At least not til after midnight when everyone’s too drunk to care.</span><div class="yj6qo"></div><div class="adL"><br /></div></div></div>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-6629235778810065682023-08-05T11:24:00.007-07:002023-08-05T12:02:19.636-07:00Post #194: The Artist’s Wife<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyBxT3cmZCqeCKvVurKgo39xobnoDMBofWMniTcAlpMcdJ2U_x_ERCVDAZB65ADCzmKndIC0sFJfiBBNZaK-DO9J1FCLYX391lBRpkeZSAQImqdjf145jkvViB5ZDqLiuDIzrmgqvrqyPPJCt6XpEDrVmz_opVzqRPW0j5n0Hlj0-bMgrNAB83lk6GKo/s1032/mayorwifetop%20of%20page.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQyBxT3cmZCqeCKvVurKgo39xobnoDMBofWMniTcAlpMcdJ2U_x_ERCVDAZB65ADCzmKndIC0sFJfiBBNZaK-DO9J1FCLYX391lBRpkeZSAQImqdjf145jkvViB5ZDqLiuDIzrmgqvrqyPPJCt6XpEDrVmz_opVzqRPW0j5n0Hlj0-bMgrNAB83lk6GKo/w400-h310/mayorwifetop%20of%20page.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Growing up at the edges of the New York art world in the 1940s, the one thing I swore I’d never become was an “Artist’s Wife.” Fortunately, it’s a position that while commonplace when I first came of marriageable age, now rarely exists. No self-respecting woman artist today would accept the role, but when I came into the scene, almost every male artist I knew had one. He couldn’t function without her. And the better the Artist’s Wife, the greater the chances for the husband’s success. Just read the biographies of deKooning or Jackson Pollack!<br /><br />Many years ago, one of my closest friends, a beautiful Viennese refugee, became a highly desirable “artist’s wife”. She proudly accepted the role, even reveled in it. Her days were filled with service to the Great One, an arrogant but talented SOB. She ran his errands, dealt with his gallery and entertained wealthy and important clients. He repayed her by seducing, or attempting to seduce all her friends, as well as every other woman who crossed his path. Needless to say, it did not end well, and his<br /> career tanked along with his marriage.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrE-Eex2jFsEh_DczYX-4JwjFDSCeyl_gdJorUmy3aj4H5QRu1CXsW6W1MOv66gJowDWHQO_SuBC5Zo4sKHHBpE97IwgFc5H7jXYr5EdAV-PekKB2rm5rZLkt7xyTPceaVRxxwOtR_sNlYrydVhsUclspoxQ5DYQatvDxrexZL8ANBbmTnASzJVsN330/s1039/mayorwifetop%20of%20page%20botom3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="799" data-original-width="1039" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrE-Eex2jFsEh_DczYX-4JwjFDSCeyl_gdJorUmy3aj4H5QRu1CXsW6W1MOv66gJowDWHQO_SuBC5Zo4sKHHBpE97IwgFc5H7jXYr5EdAV-PekKB2rm5rZLkt7xyTPceaVRxxwOtR_sNlYrydVhsUclspoxQ5DYQatvDxrexZL8ANBbmTnASzJVsN330/w400-h308/mayorwifetop%20of%20page%20botom3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I ran into him many years later after he had remarried a sexy but incompetent blonde thirty years his junior. She couldn’t tie her shoelaces without his help and needless to say, his once booming New York career as a “great artist” was over. <br /> PS. This is a Sad but True Story!</span>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-10775769029333937392023-06-30T10:50:00.003-07:002023-06-30T10:50:43.944-07:00Post #193: Little Ralphie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYGEoGbQQOVA-2Vy0jxH5pVPnCpHKkXr9sXf_Gjjc0_3vaLZFNsjtOx87FjnP7wtlZkESSt2reRUFPBDPgRYgEPmPV91yJtDg-Bda0pG5JsSXinBpY4s-oE7WWALjKaB7q_2xaPXv_qODT2px6gd6Cnny8HA9yw3iVLr59avkoasyBhgNhzQhupw5bCc/s1000/193-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="736" data-original-width="1000" height="342" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYYGEoGbQQOVA-2Vy0jxH5pVPnCpHKkXr9sXf_Gjjc0_3vaLZFNsjtOx87FjnP7wtlZkESSt2reRUFPBDPgRYgEPmPV91yJtDg-Bda0pG5JsSXinBpY4s-oE7WWALjKaB7q_2xaPXv_qODT2px6gd6Cnny8HA9yw3iVLr59avkoasyBhgNhzQhupw5bCc/w463-h342/193-1.jpg" width="490" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Despite having lived for over 90 years in (or near) what is
(or was) the greatest city in the world, I confess to never having met a real
celebrity. I did pass Andy Warhol one day on Madison Avenue wearing his
signature white wig and I shared an elevator ride with Peter Ustinov at Saks
Fifth Avenue. He even flirted with me. But other than those encounters, I’ve
never met anyone whose name you’d recognize. The only exception was someone I
knew as “Little Ralphie,” He was my friend Thelma’s baby brother. She was
frequently required to baby (stroller) sit him and considered him a royal pain
in the you know where. Who knew that in 25 years or so he would become one of
the most famous men in the world? Certainly not Thelma (or me). Had we known,
we would have been nicer to him.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOc_UPhyJU3mpzjKucaZcKQvgEH70QFPW0csFrFRFM8HzsECLOLbsW9hiF_KH81WLNa83zFjwrIb5_B7w8rd18JRoDRJj9I_AAw90qkVNMFnY3foYEQrzm0YDfDes9CHeRekqrWuke9yOyExaMZ1SEMo9cwwPfBlRKTywubtIVAXMQqBR23s9qTyBSSzo/s1000/193-2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="741" data-original-width="1000" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOc_UPhyJU3mpzjKucaZcKQvgEH70QFPW0csFrFRFM8HzsECLOLbsW9hiF_KH81WLNa83zFjwrIb5_B7w8rd18JRoDRJj9I_AAw90qkVNMFnY3foYEQrzm0YDfDes9CHeRekqrWuke9yOyExaMZ1SEMo9cwwPfBlRKTywubtIVAXMQqBR23s9qTyBSSzo/w416-h308/193-2.jpg" width="490" /></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Little Ralphie (and Thelma’s) father was a down and out,
Depression poor house painter. Like everyone else I knew, he was struggling to
keep the family afloat. In later years, when interviewed, Little Ralphie, now
the world-renown Ralph Lauren, would refer to him as an artist, and, since he
spent his days painting apartments, that description could be considered at
least partially true. One afternoon, my mother and I encountered him outside a
hardware store on Jerome Avenue in the Bronx. We were in search of something to
polish our new (second hand) baby grand piano. Of course, Mr. L. was the
perfect person to ask. “Quid Oil” was his response and so we went off in search
of Quid Oil. “Quid Oil? Never heard of it.” No one knew what we were talking
about. After a few unsuccessful attempts, it finally dawned on us that what he
was suggesting (in his heavy Yiddish accent) was Crude Oil. Kvid Oil was what
we heard. Many years later, I heard the rich and famous Ralph Lauren
interviewed about his background and he referred to his father as an “artist,”
a “painter,” which I guess was true (as far as it went.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">I don’t remember if we ever found Quid (Kvid) Oil, or just;
ended up using Johnson’s Wax. </span><o:p></o:p></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-89119400102879279292023-05-04T19:00:00.001-07:002023-05-04T19:00:00.147-07:00Post #192: Magic Scissors<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCehlzx4YoaJr-dUiWZqXTeNXtZe3Z-yKRfcn0tDjQdc61l04dB59JgS3lILd15drnsKu43KygSoXYGL9QLvF8dESUa3TAs89gKS-ZsGQlvO0Z2ePPkUkndLPKUldkDteveOGQccf5Jms2EIbLOKuqJMMq2xbswoCjtldSTsPBaeHg7f-149dlYyP/s1000/post162-top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="1000" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCehlzx4YoaJr-dUiWZqXTeNXtZe3Z-yKRfcn0tDjQdc61l04dB59JgS3lILd15drnsKu43KygSoXYGL9QLvF8dESUa3TAs89gKS-ZsGQlvO0Z2ePPkUkndLPKUldkDteveOGQccf5Jms2EIbLOKuqJMMq2xbswoCjtldSTsPBaeHg7f-149dlYyP/w530-h266/post162-top.jpg" width="530" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">Many years ago, at a local tag sale, I picked up a pair of pre-World
War II German scissors. Now I really didn’t need any more scissors, but these
were German scissors! The best of the best! No way I could pass them up. They
have magical powers, know exactly what you want them to do without you
having to consciously tell them. I think I paid around $2, a substantial sum at
the time. It turned out that what I didn’t need were all the other scissors in the
drawer. These were magical scissors; they read your mind! You never needed to
tell them what to do; your unconscious led the way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9eSSYKGl2bDix9l_yAnbDLo6OKhOicbRAYPBe4nQUyL1RoLiqPZ4bLrIMmhaCJGGIdpjFVkWrW7_A65_eoFkg_eCGPLW6l9H5EVuDm9ERMJSkZrD8qGRQL0ZGbP_eYBxmceQVt2l_2d9qhn8Mm61ACUO-gmspjtRdKoBg814R_YKDv0sKHmeyKLG/s910/post-192-lampshade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="910" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO9eSSYKGl2bDix9l_yAnbDLo6OKhOicbRAYPBe4nQUyL1RoLiqPZ4bLrIMmhaCJGGIdpjFVkWrW7_A65_eoFkg_eCGPLW6l9H5EVuDm9ERMJSkZrD8qGRQL0ZGbP_eYBxmceQVt2l_2d9qhn8Mm61ACUO-gmspjtRdKoBg814R_YKDv0sKHmeyKLG/w500-h412/post-192-lampshade.jpg" width="500" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;">
<br />
My first project with the magic scissors was a lampshade decorated with six
inch high cut outs dancing, strolling, wrestling. Alone, in pairs, or in a
crowd. When you turned on the light the lampshade came alive with a dozen or so
nymphs, wrestlers and dancing Maenads, the drunken followers of Bacchus, the
Greek god of wine. A party in my bedroom every night! And if I rotated the silk
shade that held them even a few degrees, a new, backlit cast of characters
appeared, held in place by an easily removable dab of rubber cement.<br /><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GHkBMvBVkBdqUAAwrQMbM43SUxuf0BiSeQquB4aLXGBydbsAZMkYplMhrZQyXghjLyJwYXhuj8Oj6JkisqudSZfUdKOKypPkx9VZfqJr3dIZewHnHQa4SsnyfogB7Z_KSD4anvD-1J5Ux7FXxBDMDXOEp7gJGEBIa3HE810V4XyPRyEjkfi2lyqM/s1000/post192-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="563" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0GHkBMvBVkBdqUAAwrQMbM43SUxuf0BiSeQquB4aLXGBydbsAZMkYplMhrZQyXghjLyJwYXhuj8Oj6JkisqudSZfUdKOKypPkx9VZfqJr3dIZewHnHQa4SsnyfogB7Z_KSD4anvD-1J5Ux7FXxBDMDXOEp7gJGEBIa3HE810V4XyPRyEjkfi2lyqM/w360-h640/post192-3.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><span style="font-size: medium;">My next scissor success was an illustrated window, come
alive with more nymphs and drunken maenads. Somewhat larger this time, around
18’ high, I cut them out of a roll of heavy duty wrapping paper. Again, my magic
scissors did the trick, giving silent instructions that told them what to do. I
have to confess I take no personal credit for them. It was the scissors, Tiny,
half inch hands with expressive fingers appeared. Now, like many artist, i
normally have trouble drawing hands. How come I could cut out these exquisite
shapes with no underlying sketch? It’s my magic scissors. I give them all the
credit.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Well, maybe my subconscious (and fifteen years of drawing classes) helped.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-77491622184055377392023-02-15T12:17:00.005-08:002023-02-15T13:01:51.452-08:00 Post #191: The Art of Cutting Cardboard<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhrS3bFnX17wQuTEk_evqE5sVAPUvQZmkpatgmZZqNalhU082YjFjvP5AO6IXjG19BAh6B2AN2wJC0Aw9SFrmamM3eMGL_rcC4SDVGPEskJOLAnLkeuMUWZZcXJ0Bw4nz67NqU5fMDEoPj7mrvgCHAIP-dtWqMGCIdtFcbVOfs82gN5WxF8n-Invu/s570/balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="268" data-original-width="570" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhrS3bFnX17wQuTEk_evqE5sVAPUvQZmkpatgmZZqNalhU082YjFjvP5AO6IXjG19BAh6B2AN2wJC0Aw9SFrmamM3eMGL_rcC4SDVGPEskJOLAnLkeuMUWZZcXJ0Bw4nz67NqU5fMDEoPj7mrvgCHAIP-dtWqMGCIdtFcbVOfs82gN5WxF8n-Invu/w549-h257/balcony.jpg" width="549" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">There’s something very rewarding about working with an inexpensive,
disposable material like cardboard. I’ve been a fan (short for
“fanatic”) of this cheap, endlessly versatile material for decades now </span></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;">First
of all, it encourages experimentation; you won’t hesitate to toss
failures into the recycling bin. It’s not $5 Arches watercolor paper
you’re wasting; it’s just refuse you were going to dispose of anyway.
Cardboard is easy to cut and, while hard to repair, cheap enough to
throw out and start over. I buy it in 4’x8’ triple ply sheets from a
warehouse in Norwalk. They take 2’ off the top so the boards fit into
the back of a standard pickup truck. You can cut it with a single-edge
razor blade or an x-acto knife and if I’m strong enough to cut through,
so are you.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The use of “humble” material like cement,
cardboard or scrap wood and metal was encouraged by an avant-garde art
movement known as “Arte Povera” that arose in Turin in Italy in the
1960s after World War II. It extolled cast-off, “found” materials in
lieu in of expensive, often unavailable traditional art supplies. It’s a
great way to encourage taking risks.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAqmxsZmyUFDjoEGwpwJxF4LSfsGCDu0DKH7oh4sAc9KGP2Y8GTVCVYKFy6od8bCa8meF2EFvgy3cKpeWwOii2_JJhuIguTQF0k2IDSN7nFFpBgegzvAmFY7GAKGra553qrD6LeDe8UMu_A_mbGAR578vpWPZA5nP9V-6RAtOqchy-ukw8qMc0pxK/s780/boxcity-3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="780" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAqmxsZmyUFDjoEGwpwJxF4LSfsGCDu0DKH7oh4sAc9KGP2Y8GTVCVYKFy6od8bCa8meF2EFvgy3cKpeWwOii2_JJhuIguTQF0k2IDSN7nFFpBgegzvAmFY7GAKGra553qrD6LeDe8UMu_A_mbGAR578vpWPZA5nP9V-6RAtOqchy-ukw8qMc0pxK/w504-h329/boxcity-3.jpg" width="504" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">I’ve done several
interesting projects with sheets of cheap cardboard as well as with
discarded cardboard boxes. They’re unlike anything you’ve seen before.
My first magnum opus was at an exhibit at the Westport Art Center of a
group that called themselves “The Boxists.” Traditionally slick, mostly
former well-known illustrators, they got stuck with me against their
better judgment. However, my </span><span style="font-size: medium;">higgledy piggledy 8’ pyramid of
discarded Supermarket boxes stole the show. I lit them from within and
filled them with ‘real life’ figures.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRGs46HBCge19Za1hjHL8qaIJYZotK46bRDabWFtk3uLQQZ7GTOwNq8zKBzEdBhGrUUFgMPfU3kWziS1abFQV6aCHaWhdkeGo35y1uccYQPHwKu3ve_xsn620xjr8yb302iv1n-S5_G6zQJjWpyfL-UyPDLzyz7oU5HhyD-ueR7QLy77gU8CEzNjh/s476/gansters.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="313" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkRGs46HBCge19Za1hjHL8qaIJYZotK46bRDabWFtk3uLQQZ7GTOwNq8zKBzEdBhGrUUFgMPfU3kWziS1abFQV6aCHaWhdkeGo35y1uccYQPHwKu3ve_xsn620xjr8yb302iv1n-S5_G6zQJjWpyfL-UyPDLzyz7oU5HhyD-ueR7QLy77gU8CEzNjh/s320/gansters.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">My next
experiment with cast off cardboard was a dozen, larger than life
cut-outs based on the gangster- developers who were making fortunes
trashing my beloved city. I included their equally disreputable
accomplices and their friends and family.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They were my artists’ way of getting even.</span></div>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-14392781257320992582022-11-09T10:51:00.001-08:002022-11-09T10:51:39.401-08:00Post # 190 Ninety-Nine Faces on the Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoKvKTqPDXOPQHHZWaFRjgM7rSg3ZN8QO728el8JBRu7JrAzp5E-os6Oqg6sX9vIQaDvUImeDbvEQBBX18k4m5UgixE2pni6RN0TDBqJiwgSa0wV_Jxu9R7zHHbmeWb8A2qtGrd6FKyHUki0NamRSjoxXnBNlPQX1S6pG9rXBjvFj9tf3SMUn1Dr4/s745/renneimages-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="745" data-original-width="458" height="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSoKvKTqPDXOPQHHZWaFRjgM7rSg3ZN8QO728el8JBRu7JrAzp5E-os6Oqg6sX9vIQaDvUImeDbvEQBBX18k4m5UgixE2pni6RN0TDBqJiwgSa0wV_Jxu9R7zHHbmeWb8A2qtGrd6FKyHUki0NamRSjoxXnBNlPQX1S6pG9rXBjvFj9tf3SMUn1Dr4/w347-h564/renneimages-5.jpg" width="347" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">You all remember the old camp bus song,
“Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”, well, several months ago, for some
totally inexplicable reason, I began to obsessively draw faces. all kinds. old,
young, pretty, not-so-pretty, men, women, etc. I think I stopped around the 99</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt;">.
Although I always started out with a real person whose photo I cut out of a
magazine or newspaper, the finished portrait never had the slightest
resemblance to it. It was as if my hand was no longer in charge and the face in
front of me had acquired a life of its own. This went on for several weeks at
which point I exhausted both myself and my paper supply, ending up in bed with
some kind of puzzling flu that required over a week to get over.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6sFxJpePb9EDj7fGT_UJh8XQg-I7hNBUwyeKqx2kPXY1jB0pHVCl2K_qq-niMWuwY0TfZ8WM8GqE-tNfi74WPrs41QANg6aEC3cjJuEmHqDlo4oSnUDiYeA7mA3Gf33Pbw24StxkNQRoY5_mrVkuwcuYPVABsagbo9qoUgNEnd9u5uuL6_fmSsIB/s1000/renneimages-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="592" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6sFxJpePb9EDj7fGT_UJh8XQg-I7hNBUwyeKqx2kPXY1jB0pHVCl2K_qq-niMWuwY0TfZ8WM8GqE-tNfi74WPrs41QANg6aEC3cjJuEmHqDlo4oSnUDiYeA7mA3Gf33Pbw24StxkNQRoY5_mrVkuwcuYPVABsagbo9qoUgNEnd9u5uuL6_fmSsIB/w236-h400/renneimages-1.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
The process by which I produced this Rogue’s Gallery of faces was pretty weird
in itself. I would cut interesting subjects from the local newspaper, or the
New York Times and begin to sketch them on soft newsprint paper with a pencil
or piece of charcoal. That was when the magic took place; the image on the
paper would take over and I was no longer in control of what I was drawing. The
face in front of me bore <u>no</u> resemblance to the photo I was looking at.
Someone or something else was now in charge. <br />
<br />
Day after day new faces appeared. My studio walls became obsessively covered
with them. When I ran out of wall space, I brought down huge sheets of triple
ply cardboard from the attic and covered them, front and back with faces. I
finally exhausted both my paper supply and my well-being, ending up in bed for
over a week with a strange flu. I’m lucky it was only my health and not my
sanity. <br />
<br />
I wish I could explain what happened, but I can’t. It was as if I had been
consumed by pandemic loneliness and a need for “company” and my subconscious
mind responded by creating its own crowd.</span><div><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv_0usMkVc1M8OHX0XBayUxTd70_Q-VuDVs38E0BktiGKOJsPcD3ynu7KioSB3-u--pQGSgYtpTsC_NdOi2TH9puwgRLR6ELNLIs9d8mGCCudqAYm3-JvT_oCzCzlAI0udDbC05WRrCtRGdkkvdvdVoDJY_ly-175PGW56-Eik8jyk1s6sEM9W07A/s1000/renneimages-4a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="633" data-original-width="1000" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlv_0usMkVc1M8OHX0XBayUxTd70_Q-VuDVs38E0BktiGKOJsPcD3ynu7KioSB3-u--pQGSgYtpTsC_NdOi2TH9puwgRLR6ELNLIs9d8mGCCudqAYm3-JvT_oCzCzlAI0udDbC05WRrCtRGdkkvdvdVoDJY_ly-175PGW56-Eik8jyk1s6sEM9W07A/w438-h278/renneimages-4a.jpg" width="438" /></a></div></span><p></p></div>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-62858485829295970912022-09-08T13:24:00.001-07:002022-11-08T10:41:32.601-08:00POST #189: REAL LIFE, NOT ART<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQreN_mkLdWqrZMmG3eOtgEaz2-cpfiBlYeX4X3QwotonmZ7X7WmuabHHVNxuYmAvET8sA8z6XZhdzHwOq_EpZmBYcwK_gU39vKOTfOJWdRIGh3RoqWrC2bOIKlnxMpFLNVxx9ZDVmeihNamzjgpWW08LOvxlbkjApqipO1UN9T0hk6RPiKFkGWft/s1000/Painting%205.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="658" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsQreN_mkLdWqrZMmG3eOtgEaz2-cpfiBlYeX4X3QwotonmZ7X7WmuabHHVNxuYmAvET8sA8z6XZhdzHwOq_EpZmBYcwK_gU39vKOTfOJWdRIGh3RoqWrC2bOIKlnxMpFLNVxx9ZDVmeihNamzjgpWW08LOvxlbkjApqipO1UN9T0hk6RPiKFkGWft/w264-h400/Painting%205.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>I’ve never believed in
miracles or magic or a God who cares whether I live or die. I wasn’t taught to believe
at an early enough age to accept things that don’t make sense. There’s a
rational explanation for everything and if I don’t know what it is, it’s only because
I haven’t learned it yet. There is no one to answer my prayers, no matter how nicely
I ask, and If things go wrong, I have only myself (or society) (or just plain
bad luck) to blame. God had nothing to do with it. He/She/It couldn’t care
less. I am not even a mote of dust in the eye of an unfathomable universe. The
truth is, I matter to myself alone and to an ever-diminishing circle of family
and friends. I’ve never depended on luck, played the lottery, bet on horses, or
tried to convince myself that a serial philanderer would make a good husband
(as one of my friends just recently did). I’ve always been realistic about my
chances for success. I may not like “reality”, but unfortunately, it is what it
is. I’m rarely disappointed because I was taught at an early age to only expect
what was possible. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“There’s no pie in the sky
when you die. It’s a lie!!” (Depression era song)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">While I’m probably never
going to be in a Whitney Biennial (my goal was to be the oldest artist they’ve ever
shown), there <u>are</u> some things I might realistically expect: I can hope
to keep getting better, producing artwork that doesn’t go straight into the
dumpster after I’m gone. I’ve had a long, interesting life, a loving marriage,
contributed to my community and raised three outstanding children and six dynamic
grandchildren with my first great grandchild coming in a few weeks. I try to
get to my studio every day; I’m not always happy with the results, but at least
I try to produce something worth keeping after I’m gone - and not just to
re-use the canvas.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6h4O_hynMSc42IaMcTOEPDT5tX5LRmPwwNwV3xvOUoKgVq4Rs_K5CP-BAi4wnyVHEDhBhTDi6O12-ILTOTWmb4htLaV9xkV28QSOtZranQKj3u9IF5cKSBXSVCXmMcFWCS7QuJZU3GM7cFFYOBJMwQzzNIG5RZgGXzDzeMbP-yGZfUJ1twMf3rWaQ/s1000/Painting%203.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="658" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6h4O_hynMSc42IaMcTOEPDT5tX5LRmPwwNwV3xvOUoKgVq4Rs_K5CP-BAi4wnyVHEDhBhTDi6O12-ILTOTWmb4htLaV9xkV28QSOtZranQKj3u9IF5cKSBXSVCXmMcFWCS7QuJZU3GM7cFFYOBJMwQzzNIG5RZgGXzDzeMbP-yGZfUJ1twMf3rWaQ/w264-h400/Painting%203.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The last few years of the
pandemic have been difficult for everybody. We choke behind masks, avoid our
usual haunts. I haven’t been to Curley’s Diner (my favorite hangout) for years!
My main form of socializing is an infrequent trip to the city dump (aka the
Katrina Mygatt Recycling Center). Don’t laugh! it’s the most interesting place
in town!) I come home triumphant, with books to read, old records to listen to,
and beautiful dishes to give my granddaughter for her new apartment in
Brooklyn.) A free treasure hunt; the best kind.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Speaking of God (see first
paragraph), I had an interesting encounter with Him a few nights ago, just as I
was about to fall asleep. It turns out that He<u> does</u> look like the image
of God in the Sistine Chapel Ceiling (who knew?) with a long white beard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in a good mood; I’d had a very
productive day, and despite my lack of any religious beliefs, I found myself saying
“Thank you God” while I was falling asleep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, much to my surprise, God actually
responded from up <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>above me somewhere
- in the deep, sonorous voice one would expect Him to have. “You’re welcome,” he
replied politely. Oh my God, God has<b> good manners</b>? I started to laugh,
and God, catching on to the absurdity of our interchange, started to laugh
along with me, a hearty belly-laugh that spun its way through the Universe. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClNtd0jWenEXtma-CRa23BGcWJyY_mpJQ9vM22wkE4iuCAgaNiFkmmuEwTukrlzJTibfkqVnyvj3zVvw7b9RqPkWqo84at57Fe1qwL63JX3A4mWF6OFQjjOqa9rG5WtvQxaY8Rr3GLc6_CpyRclWQeZcKSaup_4JnbIObf5QS1Gn_WG1cSsujn4PQ/s900/post%20188%20IMG_8631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="900" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhClNtd0jWenEXtma-CRa23BGcWJyY_mpJQ9vM22wkE4iuCAgaNiFkmmuEwTukrlzJTibfkqVnyvj3zVvw7b9RqPkWqo84at57Fe1qwL63JX3A4mWF6OFQjjOqa9rG5WtvQxaY8Rr3GLc6_CpyRclWQeZcKSaup_4JnbIObf5QS1Gn_WG1cSsujn4PQ/w499-h353/post%20188%20IMG_8631.jpg" width="499" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I fell
asleep, happy to know that God (whoever or whatever) and I had a similar sense
of humor. <o:p></o:p></span></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-28650803761553049512022-08-08T14:30:00.009-07:002022-08-10T12:33:13.672-07:00Post #188: Matisse and Me<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4gOJ8VkAt4DUTrMLH2ItRaNwk3zx8ySnksv7bjn4p641ZJL493XcucDIfLB7t9zSScQO5XevupGMzqEKvaexPiD0LjN_je6Ms2w0z3T5BKcnKjL12AsXX1U_yvJnWAkuDUoi8u8sxeI1RtZU6TENgFj2s30ob8LIUeNwHB1lkt5Ju8V-rbzgAdah/s800/pic-1-188-small.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="629" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4gOJ8VkAt4DUTrMLH2ItRaNwk3zx8ySnksv7bjn4p641ZJL493XcucDIfLB7t9zSScQO5XevupGMzqEKvaexPiD0LjN_je6Ms2w0z3T5BKcnKjL12AsXX1U_yvJnWAkuDUoi8u8sxeI1RtZU6TENgFj2s30ob8LIUeNwHB1lkt5Ju8V-rbzgAdah/w400-h315/pic-1-188-small.jpg" title="60” x38”" width="510" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oil, Charcoal and Collage 60” x38”</td></tr></tbody></table></div></div><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I just finished a book by
Picasso’s most accomplished and literate mistress, Francoise Gilot. Of course,
Picasso sued her after it was finished. She writes, knowingly, about the
“friendship” between Picasso and Matisse. I use quotes because both of them
were vying for the title of “greatest artist of our time” and truthfully,
couldn’t stand one another. I’ve never been much of a fan of Matisse, although
this book has persuaded me to upgrade my opinion. Picasso, whether you like his
work or not. was undoubtedly the greatest artist of the twentieth century
Despite Gilot’s treatment of the two artists as equals, it’s pretty obvious
that while Matisse was the graceful matador, Picasso was the thundering bull.</span></p><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji5msuTkREh_21wGSCMmsxGjBactGIDAmCJR_qWOivYPsMIUT5RQNOEKNSgYD4Qh0RqdlnA1TkJTZQOONEA69MOB9intmKDwN8aZENauuTx6QGiKGwfv_zv2JlExfflAYNYmQd1LZ_b_8Ne-NLy4s3oo0rgkLY5ipDlk6BGE1L4Q3YLuZfenofA5Jc/s1000/projection-188.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="647" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji5msuTkREh_21wGSCMmsxGjBactGIDAmCJR_qWOivYPsMIUT5RQNOEKNSgYD4Qh0RqdlnA1TkJTZQOONEA69MOB9intmKDwN8aZENauuTx6QGiKGwfv_zv2JlExfflAYNYmQd1LZ_b_8Ne-NLy4s3oo0rgkLY5ipDlk6BGE1L4Q3YLuZfenofA5Jc/s320/projection-188.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>It was interesting to me to
note that both men died at 92, the age I am now approaching. They were still
producing great work. Matisse and I have grown closer as we age, both having
tired of easel painting and looking for more inventive forms, mainly cut-paper
figures on a monumental scale. Matisse, bedridden, had a staff of assistants
who were able to do the bulk of the physical labor for him. He would take
sheets of paper his helpers painted in colors of his choice, using a giant pair
of scissors to create cavorting figures, often floating in space, while I,
without studio help, have turned to using the overhead project to create
monumental forms that I photograph for “posterity.” I add color from my stock
of colored cellophane (another story) rescued from the all-purpose dumpster
outside my former studio at Yale & Towne. By moving the projector back and
forth, my cut-outs – mostly 4”- 6”, create images <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as exciting as those by Matisse. (if I have
to say so myself.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJW5ju5km28IU-9ZlocNX5ngf2yaTY8YPELx-Kk0H3MMLfWJk5McwXZlwTTSm-vQAeZoiSyVRk2gzTHfkb-S5imYO4KDGy2C5a0K1KWOF_GcxCcr1VQnjNTwDxpO8qw7_Ey_meSmgJj0BM1OX__AKivRlPt2_jsCbECt71vYeVPJzKspMj7JiHbbA/s1500/Mural%20-%20Summer%20Street%20Renee%20Kahn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="829" data-original-width="1500" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvJW5ju5km28IU-9ZlocNX5ngf2yaTY8YPELx-Kk0H3MMLfWJk5McwXZlwTTSm-vQAeZoiSyVRk2gzTHfkb-S5imYO4KDGy2C5a0K1KWOF_GcxCcr1VQnjNTwDxpO8qw7_Ey_meSmgJj0BM1OX__AKivRlPt2_jsCbECt71vYeVPJzKspMj7JiHbbA/w541-h299/Mural%20-%20Summer%20Street%20Renee%20Kahn.jpg" width="541" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mural design by Renee Kahn 1976<br />Lower Summer Street, Stamford CT <br />Photo by J. Edward Greene 1989</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Those of you who have known
me a long time remember my first foray into public art, a project in 1976 for
Stamford’s Bi-Centennial celebration, a giant, two-sided mural on a derelict wall
on Lower Summer Street. I put a slide projector on the roof of a car in the
parking lot, got scaffolding erected, volunteer painters with cans of brown
paint, and projected images of historic Stamford on the wall. It lasted almost
twenty years much to everyone’s amazement. And it was certainly more interesting
than the multiplex movie house that currently occupies the site. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-2749309862016055032022-07-04T11:13:00.004-07:002022-07-04T11:37:04.208-07:00Post # 187: Creating Company…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52642sTI2YQmTfnt-DiWPh17etumOg8Jh5BpG3aNpda4ML3Vjb0dRksThu3Tj-BvT1hYLbwc5O2pFz3_j9fQXyjoIhlO6InZDQdf6cCo5fn-nK6Ue9o3z73AlH_LYN1RBA_RFR_jw0CDjAXYFsoBh0dIfDBvxBTaKm4ht7HTXvQyvNUYft-KmJocu/s1500/187-header.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1500" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg52642sTI2YQmTfnt-DiWPh17etumOg8Jh5BpG3aNpda4ML3Vjb0dRksThu3Tj-BvT1hYLbwc5O2pFz3_j9fQXyjoIhlO6InZDQdf6cCo5fn-nK6Ue9o3z73AlH_LYN1RBA_RFR_jw0CDjAXYFsoBh0dIfDBvxBTaKm4ht7HTXvQyvNUYft-KmJocu/w522-h254/187-header.jpg" width="522" /></a></div></div><div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;">My
late husband, a Clinical Child Psychologist, rarely “analyzed” my art. He felt
it was an unwarranted invasion of my privacy, only occasionally coming into the
studio while I was at work. Most of my early work was figurative, as if I were
trying to create company for myself. In fact, he would often mumble “Only an
only child would do this!” I secretly envied friends who came from large
families, had lots of siblings, not realizing that being one of many had its
own drawbacks. However, after birthing and raising three lively children, I had
enough “company” for a while and was ready to move on, creating art that was
mostly a mix of architecture and surrealist dream states.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2022" data-original-width="1579" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcQrUnCOUY2Q7og3FH_7W6pa63FnaKDWBtxvF8lQVxt3nzQDzFVpYaCMZwU1cPR20VU9qP6-nDIhLJs41ARqy-QIVS0rU9jDWLmSd1DRyrP8tCLMtMksmkOzHxkX2cLxLTbfI7zxbaOtHg6saX5b3bzGce8gBsi9lQBMWvz-TPhR51BK07d9uaJWm/w250-h320/187-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="250" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> <span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;">This
past year, probably because of the loneliness caused by the pandemic, I began
to create “company” for myself again, a crowd. The walls of my studio are
currently filled with faces: young, old, black, white. Beautiful and not so
beautiful. You could fill a subway car with my characters. Sometimes they are
inspired by a photo in the newspaper; most of the time they come unbidden from
the giant file cabinet in my head. Being alone so much of the time has set off
my urge to be with people, people to talk to, to hang out with, keep me company.
I’ve got a wall full of faces staring at me now, and I know them all.<o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="683" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimvd083eqEIQZqxz5EQ7nINTVsDLqZ2YuK0fb3pZcZzEUeHUS9nVuqd6wka8Sum788gLYDeCt1SNHCwsorwtHwj5Mds3DCEuuxIGaiQwAq2b7krATNPSrx3KGA3GCdeN5r9O5j1M8C6nhHGRZFIwawAWbXLapIc4sM5X9GAWkGU1OJjtV4rJr65yZb/w274-h400/187-2.jpg" width="274" /></span><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;">One
of the great joys in my life is my “house band,” country music players who
rehearse in a rustic (Appalachia style) shed on my property, replete with
wood-burning stove. This week, however, they asked if they could use my big painting
studio; it has a two-story ceiling and the acoustics are amazing. They said
they wanted to record some demo discs and this was the perfect place. It just
so happened that I’ve been working on a wall-full of “portraits,” a built-in,
imaginary audience that seemed to enjoy every minute of their performance. I keep adding to the crowd and there seems to
be no end in sight. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;">In
a few months, when - and if - the pandemic subsides – I’m hoping to hold some
outdoor events on my property. You’re all invited and I will let you know when,
or if, anything happens. Bring a chair, a bottle of “something…” and enjoy coming
back to life. The “Webb’s Hill Center for Music & Art”, featuring the
“Webb’s Hill Mountain Boys” (or whatever they call themselves) will, hopefully,
be open to the public. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times",serif; font-size: 14pt;">P.S. my new website is <a href="http://www.reneekahn.com">www.reneekahn.com</a></span></p></div><div><br /></div>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-56353604091828423542022-01-24T10:24:00.005-08:002022-01-24T10:27:36.627-08:00Post #186 Ode to a Paper Plate<br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7PxjeYon6nrWZQcvGSSQVjnBYGMUQ47gs-2mtll3jDVLFzaYfOgG-mruP2GEPH7f1HrcmXyJPYR-l4udwyj9A2t4p_JXFkwhi2xG-Dk5Ai-nER5HYqyKWmhY5CtxIZNd19HTBfH8PVTbbs8FY8LhG_WMv2Rg3Z9JeKzihdsSJOx8rULAMT6tKSIft=s1000" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7PxjeYon6nrWZQcvGSSQVjnBYGMUQ47gs-2mtll3jDVLFzaYfOgG-mruP2GEPH7f1HrcmXyJPYR-l4udwyj9A2t4p_JXFkwhi2xG-Dk5Ai-nER5HYqyKWmhY5CtxIZNd19HTBfH8PVTbbs8FY8LhG_WMv2Rg3Z9JeKzihdsSJOx8rULAMT6tKSIft=w640-h210" width="540" /></a></p><p> <span style="font-size: 14pt;">One reason I
was such a good art history teacher was that I taught the subject from the viewpoint
of a working artist, like myself. I could turn out a credible Renaissance
“Madonna” on the blackboard in the blink of an eye.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcFhEsyrgzfPgY7-5W4oe1tFVtwSXk8dMhNkgaDFHbaR7LP3ArhAMkuj6RnRyPow_mHr9ZjPqJs8AwdjtJNm7BA0h2fAI9jIqYJuNOMgi5S3wo4CkM3J5Zhtd9hc8Tblg2iGSyK6oI7f9Dj-ijMJ_oD2gsGyyMEcJAomEM79Q7-JcpkH_vtghLcu52=s601" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="589" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcFhEsyrgzfPgY7-5W4oe1tFVtwSXk8dMhNkgaDFHbaR7LP3ArhAMkuj6RnRyPow_mHr9ZjPqJs8AwdjtJNm7BA0h2fAI9jIqYJuNOMgi5S3wo4CkM3J5Zhtd9hc8Tblg2iGSyK6oI7f9Dj-ijMJ_oD2gsGyyMEcJAomEM79Q7-JcpkH_vtghLcu52=w196-h200" width="196" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;">But here’s
the meat of my blog: My favorite period in art history has always been Ancient
Greek ceramics, preferably from the 5<sup>th</sup> and 6<sup>th</sup> century
B.C. I connect it to my childhood love of drawing on paper plates. In fact, I
got my “start” as an artist in kindergarten by creating a much-admired paper
plate. I don’t remember what it looked like; all I remember is that my teacher
held it up to visiting parents as an example of the quality art produced in her
class. It sealed my fate. My mother was besides herself. And when, as an adult,
I made the connection to Ancient Greek pottery, I couldn’t resist the
opportunity to create plates all my own. Off I went to the local Party Shoppe at
the Mall, bringing home stacks of paper plates, all kinds: shiny black ones, cheap
white ones. 100 to a pack. I was in creative pig heaven. During the many years
I worked for the City of Stamford as an architectural “consultant,” I survived
endless boring meetings by drawing on my lap under the table on the paper plates
that were brought in to hold inedible snacks. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My unwitting models, the people who sat at the
meetings with me, never knew they had been captured for posterity on a penny’s worth
of cardboard.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5WTHH9QMAWfmXySK6aId4OCk4sfyZTy1MfbGV819ONJBPAA81tBYBIwB-xqjEmiTTtMvM-2IBMLNAudnMRFsKLJxYxjcVK_JAwZj1TS57_PYFLXJiWiZS4YxaM-UO1Z5jLyZM9Aazj-xKBdiyccndUgt-UWJOZoVeFU6AXDb5crH7ts28HlPz-6kJ=s597" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="593" data-original-width="597" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5WTHH9QMAWfmXySK6aId4OCk4sfyZTy1MfbGV819ONJBPAA81tBYBIwB-xqjEmiTTtMvM-2IBMLNAudnMRFsKLJxYxjcVK_JAwZj1TS57_PYFLXJiWiZS4YxaM-UO1Z5jLyZM9Aazj-xKBdiyccndUgt-UWJOZoVeFU6AXDb5crH7ts28HlPz-6kJ=w200-h199" width="200" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Over the
past dozen or more years, I have carried the Art of the Paper Plate to a higher
level, this time Inspired by the ancient Greeks, not boredom. I bought a
package of black construction paper and, with a pair of incredible pre-war
German scissors I found at a tag sale (they read my mind), I proceeded to create
my own Classical art. From my subconscious, no drawing required, the cheapest material
imaginable, I began to cut out a cast of characters: silhouette figures based
on my love of Greek ceramics. There was never a story, just whatever the
scissors came up with. I have stacks of images. I could literally paper entire
walls with them (and one day may do just that).</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdOl-uoJ-KV2WIRQifym5qsZ3WlVqWTEL2x-SRyPgOXloUlYr8PP4_IWJQAVzqqHFn-KbWq19mfIU09u_EnRyy9fUtcRnNJCH9L7nXwVtCCR7sky0OO14ISutYBIR0mS_7GPUZro5aPQnJcJBYauc0Yt8NYnFdkc83xfHWJw8N7GYoacmIOnlt_xjC=s450" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="446" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdOl-uoJ-KV2WIRQifym5qsZ3WlVqWTEL2x-SRyPgOXloUlYr8PP4_IWJQAVzqqHFn-KbWq19mfIU09u_EnRyy9fUtcRnNJCH9L7nXwVtCCR7sky0OO14ISutYBIR0mS_7GPUZro5aPQnJcJBYauc0Yt8NYnFdkc83xfHWJw8N7GYoacmIOnlt_xjC=w250-h253" width="250" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The moral of
the story is, you don’t need expensive materials to create a work of art: just your
imagination and the willingness to let your subconscious lead the way. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m already on to my next step, life size “murals”
using the overhead projector. I project my small cutouts to whatever size I
want, from inches to feet. These are ‘ephemeral’ but can always be captured
with my IPhone or cut out of sheets of brown wrapping paper. I can’t wait to
see what happens next. Many years ago, I picked up some colored cellophane from
an industrial dumpster and now I can add color to my images. Wait until you see
them!</span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">By the way,
check out an old blog of mine, <a href="https://reneekahntheartist.blogspot.com/2013/06/blog-1-arte-povera-unless-you-were.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: #783f04;">Post #<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> 1</span> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>called “Arte Povera,”</span></a> (literally
“Poor Art, ”a movement that began in Italy after World War II that emphasized
using “humble, non-traditional materials like concrete” (or paper plates). <o:p></o:p></span></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-21522093960733990762021-11-07T18:48:00.001-08:002021-11-07T19:01:20.973-08:00 POST #185: CITY OF MY DREAMS<p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">New York was an artists’
paradise. Despite the poverty of the Great Depression, the city was alive and
in the middle of a cultural Golden Age. Like most Golden Ages in history, it
didn’t last very long, a decade or two at most, but during that time the arts
flourished: painters and sculptors were subsidized by federal programs and art
was found everywhere. I consider myself hugely fortunate to have grown up in a
world that now exists only in the memory of the few who survive. I lived in the
outer reaches of the city, adjacent to Woodlawn Cemetery, one of the great park
cemeteries popularized during the mid 1800s. At night, I would sit at my fire
escape window and look out at the lights of the city, the skyline and the
necklace of bridges that surrounded it. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Each
weekday morning, I walked the ten blocks or so that took me to the last stop of
my subway line, the D Train that led to Manhattan and the riches it contained.
I was fortunate to have been accepted to attend the High School of Music &
Art, an institution for the “gifted” created by New York’s quirky mayor,
Fiorello LaGuardia.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjI31_yO2tsdm7nOhoH5DGOChr25lYdM1rx8FJoIDdhgdF1_XE9kUF7H36XZLjrijvyBGp9z3hFnFVpgpJ_L0aMeSyGFr4yXzkew6iMZ3_kDoSKmsp5fOIZJjkoEPqoglVKZ2EtH0kgIA/s800/185-1a.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="549" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjI31_yO2tsdm7nOhoH5DGOChr25lYdM1rx8FJoIDdhgdF1_XE9kUF7H36XZLjrijvyBGp9z3hFnFVpgpJ_L0aMeSyGFr4yXzkew6iMZ3_kDoSKmsp5fOIZJjkoEPqoglVKZ2EtH0kgIA/w275-h400/185-1a.jpg" width="275" /></a></div>On weekends, I explored the
city, walking for hours, sometimes stopping to sketch or take black and white photos
on my $2 Brownie Point & Shoot camera, (the one that required no skill to
operate.) I still have an envelope full of snaps and negatives of the Lower
East Side (in its heyday) that continue to inspire me. Unlike today, where
culture is costly, museums were free and all within walking distance of a bus
or subway. I was often joined by my best friend, Joan, who got on the train to
meet me. My stop was 205<sup>th</sup> Street, hers was 168<sup>th</sup>; 75
years later, I still remember. Together we roamed the city, wisely limiting
ourselves to one neighborhood at a time. One Saturday afternoon, we would
explore Broadway and Hell’s Kitchen, the next week was the Lower East Side,
Little Italy and the Bowery. Chinatown required an afternoon of its own as did
Greenwich Village with its side trips to the artisan jewelry makers on 4<sup>th</sup>
Street. Heading downtown eventually got us to Canal Street, a mile-long playpen
of industrial detritus. Getting there, however, required scooting through SOHO,
a trek that involved evading the catcalls of the factory workers who hounded us
along the way. My companion possessed an ample bosom that always evoked
admiring comments.</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfTMtUX7G4ItiB9FYyRkD0VNUrNojHaOO3KpLXmc2NnuYnklUGwII8X3Ldj0G0MNXW3vemPSL7qvMRpMK0-VYkg7U3pW560xD5PRpeac0tUK0ZI0hqcjXm-uaqB84kzB1x9R45BkcUcA/s800/185-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="447" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfTMtUX7G4ItiB9FYyRkD0VNUrNojHaOO3KpLXmc2NnuYnklUGwII8X3Ldj0G0MNXW3vemPSL7qvMRpMK0-VYkg7U3pW560xD5PRpeac0tUK0ZI0hqcjXm-uaqB84kzB1x9R45BkcUcA/w224-h400/185-6.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>We rarely ventured beyond
Manhattan, a decision I now regret. There seemed to be enough to keep us
occupied without crossing any bridges. Sometimes we rode the few remaining
elevated subway lines allowing us to stare into tenement windows along the way.
Other times, we just walked without a destination. We also had the option of
climbing on one of the double-decker busses that crisscrossed the city. Public
transportation cost little, although ‘on foot’ remained our preferred way to go.
It allowed for occasional shopping “sprees” or lunches in Chinatown or the
Lower East Side, neighborhoods that provided delights unequalled by any museum.
The signage alone was enough to make a young art student’s head spin.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I don’t want to overwhelm
you, just give you an idea of the riches we encountered. There was Harlem, but
you had to stay on 125<sup>th</sup> Street, then Spanish Harlem with its “under
the el” shopping stalls, Yorktown with its great German food and “Jews not
welcome” vibe. Heading downtown we encountered the great (and free) museums:
The Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Museum of the City of New York, the New
York Historical Society, the Museum of Natural History. I could go on for
another page. We stared at glorious architecture everywhere we went, not the
boring glass boxes one sees today. There were Gothic Revival churches,
Renaissance palazzos, neoclassical townhouses, all free of charge. I shiver
just remembering it.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaM5DHjgOjV1UZQc1VvLkqj6hTGzZsF03xQoVnrFZN5MaP7-rFeMNAdFbPGEZkYeTKzwXGdSA40ufZm_9Kou_aZbCUsXhHybUwq0c1wiy9Xmr-bRqT1VPx4bA2Nygxwk3FwpAWI2JETJY/s800/185-3.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="541" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaM5DHjgOjV1UZQc1VvLkqj6hTGzZsF03xQoVnrFZN5MaP7-rFeMNAdFbPGEZkYeTKzwXGdSA40ufZm_9Kou_aZbCUsXhHybUwq0c1wiy9Xmr-bRqT1VPx4bA2Nygxwk3FwpAWI2JETJY/w270-h400/185-3.jpg" width="270" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And then there was the endless
shopping: window and otherwise. Everything from the luxury of Fifth Avenue with
its designer clothing and sophisticated window displays to the exciting streets
of the Lower East Side with its bins of “schmattas,” cloth remnants gleaned
from the dress industry that dominated the city at the time. Or Chinatown with
its windows full of cheaply-made imported trinkets and toys. Canal Street with
its industrial detritus; the second-hand bookstores that lined 4<sup>th</sup>
Avenue below 14<sup>th</sup> Street, the bargain clothing stores that
overlooked Union Square. The Bowery with its lines of blank-faced men. I get
out of breath just thinking about it. You could walk for days without seeing
the same place twice.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-8205370660016196912021-06-09T10:01:00.005-07:002021-06-09T11:34:23.527-07:00Post #184: How to Hold Your Audience<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidccnTskgek4tzddfSIKidmUnuhK0AVVM_pHl9c5wNJHWYvS1uawn5X3KZquA6uLIndGfZO8azspTXDVhuLkUs1yiE0j0vmo0g3V09Zq-HqbckkCLB1n5yK-L-bLbe7N7MBeIC8Y-i7vo/s800/184+pic+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="800" height="445" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidccnTskgek4tzddfSIKidmUnuhK0AVVM_pHl9c5wNJHWYvS1uawn5X3KZquA6uLIndGfZO8azspTXDVhuLkUs1yiE0j0vmo0g3V09Zq-HqbckkCLB1n5yK-L-bLbe7N7MBeIC8Y-i7vo/w497-h445/184+pic+1.jpg" width="497" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I taught art history for 22
years at the University of Connecticut’s Stamford Campus (the “Branch,” as it
was dismissively known.) Despite my lack of a PhD and formal book learning, I
was rated one of the best teachers and my classes were always full. I was a
“performer,” thanks to my just-out-of-college teaching stint in the South Bronx
(see above). Since most of my readers (so they tell me) dread public speaking,
I thought I’d give you some tips. It’s a question of practice and the
confidence you get from experience. I do, however, have some pointers you might
find useful.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">1)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Do <u>not</u>
read your lecture.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> The minute I see
someone take out a written lecture, I tune out. Unless it’s a technical subject
with numbers and formulae, like quantum physics, wing it. If you don’t know
your material well enough to just go with some notes, you shouldn’t be up there.
Avoid writing on the blackboard while you are lecturing. The class can’t listen
and copy at the same time. Just put your main points on a card and TALK! Look
the class in the eye to see if they get you, and if they look dazed, start over.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">2)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> <b>Maintain eye contact and PERFORM. </b>Put
the technical stuff in a handout to be taken home and reviewed. Give out a
vocabulary list of unfamiliar terms. Don’t expect the class to know your
jargon. That’s what you’re there to teach.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">3)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Draw on the
blackboard.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> It’s very entertaining.
If you can’t draw, use a slide or an overhead projector to project the image,
trace it and get the students to copy it.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">4)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Don’t be
afraid to be a little bawdy or risqué. </span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Not
vulgar, just amusing. Tell a saucy anecdote. It will keep the class awake. They
won’t forget it.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">5)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Do not permit any
side conversations.</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> Stop the class
and stare down the guilty parties. You owe it to your students to avoid
distractions. You might even want to permanently separate repeat offenders.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 40.5pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">6)<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Love your
subject and let it show</span></b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">. If you
don’t, get another job.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi236MhZjUlmPWNao-WfE5wH0qaoZH0tveNiq2u9cD6BZFkeTxtp3vy-t0_phyphenhyphentsS067dKj9dhHTfsfe8ZIpghZ9C1uv_DqaogV2rFQs1_fOlC0PL2vuG5GPT7AvSLTJsx9v8lDhe_lt6s/s600/filename-1-a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="460" data-original-width="600" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi236MhZjUlmPWNao-WfE5wH0qaoZH0tveNiq2u9cD6BZFkeTxtp3vy-t0_phyphenhyphentsS067dKj9dhHTfsfe8ZIpghZ9C1uv_DqaogV2rFQs1_fOlC0PL2vuG5GPT7AvSLTJsx9v8lDhe_lt6s/w527-h403/filename-1-a.jpg" width="527" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">At the end of every semester,
the students were asked to grade their teachers. I always came out quite well
even though I was usually only a chapter ahead of the class in the text. The
fact that I was a “working artist” gave me an edge over the academics who usually
taught art history. I understood how an artist thought and functioned. What I
lacked in book learning (I still can’t do footnotes properly) I made up for with
hands-on experience in the art world. I managed to convey love of my subject in
what otherwise could have been an awfully deadly hour and a half. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Renee Kahn,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Artist first,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Art Historian second,<br />Writer third</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p> </p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-72680400657852462502021-04-23T15:59:00.005-07:002021-04-23T17:18:09.030-07:00POST #183: Back to the Drawing Board<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sCZtnnH_YsGoJGIlUgGr9o4Ybd-nP5a4QAq9FdNqF4O5PyhmxMG6YuhW7VGbOwqtF2IdJjLthHalY3AQeVAd1sAiRx18grebjQFsyhrDhkaqrqkmsuQTKi8tlTcQm75373pnGRlug3g/s800/183-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0sCZtnnH_YsGoJGIlUgGr9o4Ybd-nP5a4QAq9FdNqF4O5PyhmxMG6YuhW7VGbOwqtF2IdJjLthHalY3AQeVAd1sAiRx18grebjQFsyhrDhkaqrqkmsuQTKi8tlTcQm75373pnGRlug3g/w400-h229/183-1.jpg" width="510" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I was recently ruminating,
(having nothing better to do waiting for the plague to end) on why artists stay
with one style (or why they change their style.) And the more I thought about
it, the more answers came to me. I’ll run some by you, but I’m sure you have explanations
of your own. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The main reason an artist is famous
for work in one single style is usually the obvious one: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>he or she died before they got around to exploring
new ideas: Seurat, Modigliani, Kline, Basquiat, Haring, just to name a few who never
lived long enough to move on (assuming they even would have wanted to.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOi7rVWE_Lio5QiF_9mDPMX0933I77z525D80ZPsSZU1Jp3MjN4kmytRwqCDr5J8YEoWdnTMKj14K3RX4vrDb-fpe0_4Dow4I7rJAxgSS19mTOJvJeFcfMLBvZKIwuFwqtz6MxRCvrDuQ/s1000/Dream-Towers-LARGE-B.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="663" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOi7rVWE_Lio5QiF_9mDPMX0933I77z525D80ZPsSZU1Jp3MjN4kmytRwqCDr5J8YEoWdnTMKj14K3RX4vrDb-fpe0_4Dow4I7rJAxgSS19mTOJvJeFcfMLBvZKIwuFwqtz6MxRCvrDuQ/w265-h400/Dream-Towers-LARGE-B.jpg" title="“Imaginary View From a New York City Window” Oil on canvas 68”x46”" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Imaginary View From a New York City Window”<br />Oil on canvas 68”x46”</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then there are artists who stay
with a style because it is their nature, their rigid personalities discourage
experimentation. Mondrian, for example, once he achieved his signature rectangular
grid, often worked on the same paintings for years, making minute changes,
rarely achieving the perfection he sought. But he was rigid in </span><u style="font-size: 14pt;">all</u><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
aspects of his life; contemporary photos show him working in a spare, immaculate
studio, in suit and tie, moving pieces of colored tape millimeters to the left
or the right.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Some artists find a formula
early on and stay with it. They’re probably the same way about everything they
do: what they eat, what they wear, how they make love. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">They draw comfort in achieving “perfection” in
a narrow band, not in experimenting with something new.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />….and then there are artists
like Chagall, a genius who was capable of invention but found a formula early
on that his buyers wanted: floating lovers, rabbis, scenes of Vitebsk and farm animals
(don’t forget the cows.) You knew a Chagall the minute you saw one and his
admirers gobbled them up. He never changed because he was successful,
financially and otherwise.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">On a more mundane level: a
highly successful painter I know from my Music & Art High School days (he exhibits
in major Madison Avenue galleries and invests in New York real estate) has been
painting the same semi-abstract Vermont landscapes for over forty years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re not <i>exactly</i> the same: sometimes
the view is from the North, sometimes South, East or West. But he has a wonderful
color sense and his “faux Cezanne” daubs do look like they belong in a museum. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s enough variety to keep his clientele
buying what they think is new work. The so-called “gurus of the art world” either
ignore him (or hate him) but, as he once told me: “I cry all the way to the
bank.” He’s especially popular with Texas zillionaires who love to decorate their
homes with art work that looks sophisticated, but is “easy on the eyes.” They
grab up everything he does. He’s a businessman first, he admits, and a
businessman stays with a product that sells.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14vkioPYCewFMQQ1Tw0LgtB6I5LAo-SUdYcQLmB4eVwJ7FgoqaO9i2_2EanUxHK-0eK8fL6abph7Z_Sdqqn4yMgKTNdVKPHlqCjGq4ynvkBIO_420PRMb5V6USmLqbsaR5jxwOeODY9M/s709/DSC03241-1.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="709" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh14vkioPYCewFMQQ1Tw0LgtB6I5LAo-SUdYcQLmB4eVwJ7FgoqaO9i2_2EanUxHK-0eK8fL6abph7Z_Sdqqn4yMgKTNdVKPHlqCjGq4ynvkBIO_420PRMb5V6USmLqbsaR5jxwOeODY9M/w283-h400/DSC03241-1.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">City Scene <br />18”x12”. Oil on Panel</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: 14pt;">But why are Monet or Cezanne,
who remained with the same subject matter for decades considered </span><u style="font-size: 14pt;">great</u><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
artists and my Vermont scene painter always a hack? My theory is that it has to
do with <b>i</b></span><b style="font-size: 14pt;">ntent</b><span style="font-size: 14pt;">. A true artist, like Monet, who painted the same subject
over and over, sought some intrinsic truth that only repetition could bring. It’s
like a meditation mantra. To get to the essence of an object or a place one had
to do what psychologists call </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;">“break set,”</b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> break down a formulaic way of
seeing something by staring at it intently for a long period of time. The goal was
to </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;">see</b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> better not </span><b style="font-size: 14pt;">sell</b><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> better. Cezanne’s multiple views of Mont Sainte-Victoire
were a perfect example of an artist using repetition as a way of penetrating deeper
into a subject’s essential identity, its solidity, its changes with weather,
time of day. He didn’t do it because he thought there was a market for mountain
scenes.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />During my decades as a
working artist, I’ve learned how hard it is to generalize about art and artists.
There are geniuses like Mark Rothko (an all-time favorite) who committed
suicide - possibly because he found himself “stuck in a style.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Jackson Pollock, success didn’t allow him
to move on. The public wanted to buy paintings by Rothko and Pollock that
looked like they were done by Rothko and Pollock. They were among the many artists
who got rich and famous only to discover their creativity hemmed in by dealers,
debts, houses in the Hamptons, ex- wives and wayward children. Forced to keep
producing the signature work associated with their names, they killed
themselves.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And on the other hand, another
of my gods, Philip Guston, walked away from the fashionable art world, locked
himself up in a farmhouse in Woodstock, New York and created powerful,
disturbing and original work that was only appreciated decades after his death.
Like Alice Neel who is only now getting her due, his time has come and his
greatness recognized.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Lovingly submitted <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Renee Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-89067706566955176292021-04-09T15:32:00.000-07:002021-04-09T15:32:38.878-07:00POST # 182: DREAMS THAT MONEY CAN’T BUY<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwUYU1LxPs7YHwN9dr2AlL0jsu2h42nYgN3lVpdV40IAYQe4HAWITKE1pZUbEn1n3NZRasLA08n3WxjboAzSQqbNR1ySnjZCi8DU8hWAotdcl2yhSLMExMZ9yzXLv-CAASUVNQ0EuK-c/s1000/182+pic+1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="1000" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpwUYU1LxPs7YHwN9dr2AlL0jsu2h42nYgN3lVpdV40IAYQe4HAWITKE1pZUbEn1n3NZRasLA08n3WxjboAzSQqbNR1ySnjZCi8DU8hWAotdcl2yhSLMExMZ9yzXLv-CAASUVNQ0EuK-c/w575-h345/182+pic+1.jpg" width="525" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">In a recent (and rare)
clean-up mode, I came across a Dream Book I had kept several years ago. In it I
wrote down a half dozen vivid dreams I somehow managed to remember. As my
readers probably know, it is extremely difficult to remember dreams, probably
because we’re not really supposed to remember them. Acquiring the skill (and
keeping it) requires a great deal of effort and practice, but if you succeed,
it’s well worth the trouble. Oddly enough, my Dream Book recently disappeared;
I have searched everywhere, but it is gone. Perhaps having served its original psychological
purpose, it has now become a dream.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_R1ZHnqSHMK_ooDuw4dOfzzKdvlfoFaEfQaJsTEo1i7EK4nNLHFrEbzvfaJpSa2UMj26nTOAQ0JsSsfSQpHdSQKufb30m3phSR9hJeglkX_QhI0KwsBfHe7RPavHRFVTuTz2CcFttd_w/s761/182+pic+3.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="761" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_R1ZHnqSHMK_ooDuw4dOfzzKdvlfoFaEfQaJsTEo1i7EK4nNLHFrEbzvfaJpSa2UMj26nTOAQ0JsSsfSQpHdSQKufb30m3phSR9hJeglkX_QhI0KwsBfHe7RPavHRFVTuTz2CcFttd_w/w315-h400/182+pic+3.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’ve always been attracted to
Surrealism. It’s one of the more interesting movements in 20<sup>th</sup> century
art, a subject I taught at the University of Connecticut for many years. The
decades between World War I and II were veritable dream factories in Europe,
and later, during the war, the movement was brought to the United States by an
amazing group of expat artists, most notably Max Ernst and Dorotea Tanning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My favorite artist of the period was Kurt
Schwitters who left behind his masterpiece, the “Merzhaus,” an imaginative
reconfiguration of a townhouse in Hamburg, Germany (although I don’t think he
ever considered himself a Surrealist.) Spurred by psychoanalytic theory, Freud
and Jung created a scientific basis for the interpretation of dreams. However,
Hitler’s Third Reich did not prove to be hospitable to dreamers and most of the
artists and psychoanalysts of the period ended up as refugees here or in
England during World War II. Our gain; Europe’s loss.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">My Dream Book provided me
with lots of interesting images, only a few of which I was able to convert into
art. The closest I ever got to succeeding were a series of quasi-surrealist paintings
and drawings I did while recovering from a broken ankle in my daughter’s
eleventh floor New York apartment with windows overlooking West End Avenue and
the Hudson River. The magical views have shown up in dozens of paintings. Real,
yet unreal? Surreal?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
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decided to try to remember my dreams. For some reason, I was having incredibly
imaginative ones at the time – ones I felt worth saving. I was previously never
able to remember them but someone told me that if I go to bed telling myself
that I </span><u style="font-size: 14pt;">must</u><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> remember - and then write the dream down immediately after
waking – usually first thing in the morning - I might be able to retain them.
The technique apparently worked and, after a few weeks, I had a notebook filled
with extremely vivid dreams. I tried turning them into paintings but they were
too complex – with the exception of one that showed my late husband floating in
the Bardo, a Buddhist term for the time between life and the afterlife. He had returned
to tell me how happy he was, free from earthly cares and how his magnificent, athlete’s
body, much to his delight, was now a spiritual one floating untethered and
undamaged in space.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XFnqU4CKiGkBQcvFjzFarJwvSdTEsO8qeT8pobuC5RumxJMIaDcKnlemaSFozAQ58WniWZtpmVIhjOwEnqrewKfc3Icjk3hRUi64fPz0xhQWoFTgdzGi47je2fGqzOS-H5DqCFxsaCA/s1000/182+pic+6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="1000" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-XFnqU4CKiGkBQcvFjzFarJwvSdTEsO8qeT8pobuC5RumxJMIaDcKnlemaSFozAQ58WniWZtpmVIhjOwEnqrewKfc3Icjk3hRUi64fPz0xhQWoFTgdzGi47je2fGqzOS-H5DqCFxsaCA/w608-h361/182+pic+6.jpg" width="525" /></a></div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />I recently went back to that
dream painting and added a pair of 6’x4’ stretched canvas panels similar in
color and technique. These recent works are not of the Bardo, but a curious mish-mash
of pre-historic cave painting combined with Picasso, Chagall, Calder, cut-out
dolls and Cubism. Now, how’s that for an artistic stew? Twenty-two years of
teaching art history has come back to haunt me!</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-79136043338506717662020-02-24T17:18:00.000-08:002020-02-24T18:39:06.830-08:00POST #181: CREATING LIFE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTcYlAa-inyWZ5hA9UU2FswucruO5rf5LgOIWJGsPyAxtokx0jdPVPAILQgGc9p5eg2mM6v3XbJ56wbgJAgl26a_7JxiuQxfO-cSH-dP3CKQW9zo8oqcKn4V26a0mateV96qDbRPNuZw/s1600/IMG_0604-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="543" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheTcYlAa-inyWZ5hA9UU2FswucruO5rf5LgOIWJGsPyAxtokx0jdPVPAILQgGc9p5eg2mM6v3XbJ56wbgJAgl26a_7JxiuQxfO-cSH-dP3CKQW9zo8oqcKn4V26a0mateV96qDbRPNuZw/s640/IMG_0604-a.jpg" width="433" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Whenever I create “life”, my goal is to get my subject to talk to me. Like Donatello’s Renaissance statue of <b>Il Zuccone</b>, I want it to speak. My late husband, a clinical psychologist, used to call it my “only child syndrome.” I’m not <b>painting </b>a person; I’m <b>creating </b>a person, a playmate, a companion. My studio and my attic are currently filled with cut-out characters. I occasionally work from photographs that I or someone else has taken, but only as a starting point; most of the time I am totally surprised at who turns up. I never idealize people; I want them raw and rugged, the way they are in real life: lumps, bumps and all. I draw upon decades of sketching at Government Center meetings, or Breakfast at Curley’s; it’s like I have a giant photo album in my head that keeps spilling out images. Recently, I’ve learned how to use my iPhone to take photos without my victim realizing his image was being captured. I pretend I’m talking on the phone or looking at something behind them, lest they think I’m invading their privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Most of my figurative work, because it is so true to life, is controversial. Am I making fun of people of different races, ages, ethnicities? Satire, nowadays, is a touchy subject. At what point does gentle humor transcend into racist insult? I have to be very careful where I show my work and hope that no misreads my intent. A few years ago, the local Downtown Council asked me to put my life size “real women” paper dolls in a storefront window but then they panicked at my pregnant teenage bride. Was she Latina? Would someone be insulted? I thought she was adorable and apparently so did the hundreds of people who walked by that weekend. The only objection came from a tormented soul who threw a cup of coffee at the window claiming I was making fun of fat people. When the dolls were exhibited in a gallery in New Britain recently, I was asked to give a talk about the work. Would someone accuse me of political incorrectness? Fortunately, the audience, a dozen women of mixed ages, races, sizes got my point. They understood the affection behind my satire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWFhHTc1g2guNP5eih4dRfb1RwkPcbsZZa19OxjuvBmX0st-9AvmLGx0zEqMVoN1Ro-AQKEtvLrxNmdTvsqiS6SZEbmx5GKqA1ApTinfQytyppRjb-aDkY_weg3Qmp9RV_yJBLzzeCns/s1600/IMG_0518-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1131" data-original-width="601" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixWFhHTc1g2guNP5eih4dRfb1RwkPcbsZZa19OxjuvBmX0st-9AvmLGx0zEqMVoN1Ro-AQKEtvLrxNmdTvsqiS6SZEbmx5GKqA1ApTinfQytyppRjb-aDkY_weg3Qmp9RV_yJBLzzeCns/s640/IMG_0518-a.jpg" width="337" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Over the years, I have created a half dozen series of paper dolls on different topics, some exhibitable, some not. The one I’ve never shown publicly is my <b>Mens Bathhouse</b> series. You need a strong stomach for that one. It’s based on the observation that nudity is not what it’s cracked up to be and most people avoid it for a good reason. The dolls are 24” high cut outs of the kind of men you see at zoning board meetings: well-dressed thugs. It’s my way of getting back at them for all the damage they have done to my beloved city. They are ugly inside and out and only a George Grosz could really do justice to them. I do my best.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">The most powerful series I ever did was of local gangsters – 8’ high cardboard figures meant to be held up so the carrier’s legs were the legs of the puppet. They are crying out for a script by Brecht, but he’s not available and I don’t know anyone else who can do it. They can also be displayed on tripod wood stands, lit so they cast giant terrifying shadows. I wish I knew of a gallery big enough accommodate them; it would need 20’ ceilings.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG_tJ_JlGAGEmtk9A8qJCuy32r4sRcVc4tzJ2_ga12jXMMHiy66fr0oUEGVDAZb8fZwK61-Iv2XevlJeQZnlB3JP0bTJUrGq4m45X5kcgRL8L6I-ft93EhbWfHrPB_o83Pxw6oaVqA9s/s1600/IMG_0608-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="661" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivG_tJ_JlGAGEmtk9A8qJCuy32r4sRcVc4tzJ2_ga12jXMMHiy66fr0oUEGVDAZb8fZwK61-Iv2XevlJeQZnlB3JP0bTJUrGq4m45X5kcgRL8L6I-ft93EhbWfHrPB_o83Pxw6oaVqA9s/s640/IMG_0608-a.jpg" width="420" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Goddess of the New Popular Restaurant. Oil on canvas. 62”x 48”</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Meanwhile, my characters live mainly in my attic. God only knows what goes on there at night when I’m not around!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Glad to be back,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">Renee Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-37173334456079283112020-02-07T17:38:00.000-08:002020-02-08T10:39:58.824-08:00POST #180: Apollonian vs Dionysian<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUXGYdq2zzSzdDYP8cF9R4EnmU2GShHIb6GmNkEMZxqJ5623IBmwCJawlQdck-boRKzu4goBUoZqp4uN6AXM2XV_f30pu7J_3_X5ylCHqibQgY0-XEQ5GztDLkjEP20gdmpmvN7SNC9Y/s1600/IMG_0498-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUXGYdq2zzSzdDYP8cF9R4EnmU2GShHIb6GmNkEMZxqJ5623IBmwCJawlQdck-boRKzu4goBUoZqp4uN6AXM2XV_f30pu7J_3_X5ylCHqibQgY0-XEQ5GztDLkjEP20gdmpmvN7SNC9Y/s400/IMG_0498-a.jpg" width="391" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">The philosopher Nietzsche was the first to write about the presence in our lives of powerful forces that he referred to as Apollonian or Dionysian, referring to the Greek god Apollo who represents order, reason and beauty, as opposed to the Dionysian, our wilder selves represented by Dionysus, the god of wine. Dionysus creates chaos, madness, sexual depravity and drunkenness and is usually expressed by wild, licentious music and dance. It’s like a carefully organized Bach fugue versus an orgiastic Woodstock performance to a spaced-out audience. Nietzsche saw the need for both elements in a life well lived: the rule of law and rational thinking balanced by the need to let loose and have a damned good time. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">In the healthy, well-adjusted person, both stay in balance; it’s when one element predominates and drives out the other that trouble ensues.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">Artists tend – at least in the current art scene - to be more Dionysian than Apollonian. But given the unpredictable world we live in and our often irrational “supreme leader” it’s no surprise that most contemporary art has an air of hysteria about it: over-sized, over-pigmented and over-dramatic. How can an artist possibly be Apollonian in this crazy, irrational world?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">In the next week or two I’m planning to conduct a design workshop for a few artist/photographer friends. Our topic is something we used to refer to in art school as the “Principles of Design.” I intend to talk about timeless verities such as balance, harmony, focal point, rhythm, and relationship of forms, all the qualities required to create a harmonious (Apollonian?) work of art. But what if there is no such thing any more? Why should there be harmony in art when it doesn’t exist anywhere else in the world? Maybe the chaos of contemporary life requires a whole new set of Unprincipled Principles of Design and I’m just wasting everyone’s time teaching order and rules. Maybe I should just pass the mescaline and let everyone be his or her inner Dionysian selves?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; font-weight: normal;">P.S. in my pre adolescence, I used to be a Duncan dancer, a disciple of Isadora Duncan, a passionate Dionysian if there ever was one. We danced in flowing scarves and Grecian togas with wreaths of flowers I’m out hair. A sight to behold!<br />R.K.</span><br />
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-10440511666148523562019-11-29T16:41:00.002-08:002019-11-29T18:52:23.086-08:00POST#179: TO DRAW OR NOT TO DRAW, THAT IS THE QUESTION<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Harlem Figures: Charcoal and Oil on Canvas 24"x 54"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My
friend George recently recommended a book from the 1920s by Harold Speed called
“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">The Practice and Science of
Drawing.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>Staying in print that
long, I’m sure it’s an excellent primer on the art of drawing but it begs the
question of whether anyone needs or wants to draw any more. Given easy access
to computer and photographic images, is it even a necessary skill? When I began
to study art as a teenager, drawing from life was the basis of all our
training. The entrance exam I took at the age of 14 for the High School of
Music & Art in New York City was largely designed to see whether or not I
could draw. My best friend and I still remember the contour drawing we were
required to do for the exam; neither of us had ever done one before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was widely accepted among artists that
before you could study painting or sculpture, you <u>had</u> to know how to
draw. I remember telling my friend Elena, a graduate of the prestigious Moscow
Art Institute, that I had met graduates from the top art schools in America who
couldn’t draw a hand. She sniffed and haughtily replied that in Russia, you
couldn’t get into art school if you couldn’t draw a hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">But
drawing, while it might be “technically obsolete,” has certain advantages over
photo derived images. It forces you to actually LOOK (stare) at something,
study it. Get to know it. It is one thing to photograph a tree and its
branches, but a totally different part of the brain is required to draw it, to
understand how everything connects, how light and shadow create roundness and
depth, the texture of the bark. In drawing from life we learn about a subject
in a way no photo can ever teach us. Just think about what we get from one of
Leonardo’s anatomical drawings. Better than a photo any day!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPY1f5e8_k64VhKd1NhIKsRzP_Rmei6AGTA5lTp5kzDXN0E7fz787j1MoVCWW39tkDEsTAvCuf-MgrAqgp52PuH_tFnGLvrspKxEvkRfA_gpgF9cpQI2qn2Lo8SsXBgTaUwO49UElqMWY/s1600/IMG_0038-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="626" data-original-width="408" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPY1f5e8_k64VhKd1NhIKsRzP_Rmei6AGTA5lTp5kzDXN0E7fz787j1MoVCWW39tkDEsTAvCuf-MgrAqgp52PuH_tFnGLvrspKxEvkRfA_gpgF9cpQI2qn2Lo8SsXBgTaUwO49UElqMWY/s640/IMG_0038-a.jpg" width="416" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Dream" - Charcoal Drawing on Stained Canvas 60"x48"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">There
is also another kind of drawing that’s almost impossible to teach: pulling
images from the subconscious, the so-called ‘inner eye.’ It’s something that
can only be accessed after long experience in training the ‘outer eye.’ Many
artists never learn how to access the millions of images they have stored in
their brain, the so-called ‘imagination.’ Frankly, that’s where the really
interesting stuff is found. But, before you get to the inner eye, you need to
spend an awful lot of time learning how to draw what’s in front of you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-63107053899397121392019-11-02T18:17:00.005-07:002019-11-02T20:10:58.348-07:00POST #178: TURNING PHOTO-LEMONS INTO PHOTO-LEMONADE<br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYJuF6a4hh6Hcsn0_1ngx7mUC-uxRjKFzZ0i1O4cb22brRuasn_T3absuixTVDgUgDK-GnkcS-tgP8mKjY7lI5OMG6wnyRUsCfdotB7mjxw5Sm3OO54npkbaE_9m5vQtE_TOMx0kh31o/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkYJuF6a4hh6Hcsn0_1ngx7mUC-uxRjKFzZ0i1O4cb22brRuasn_T3absuixTVDgUgDK-GnkcS-tgP8mKjY7lI5OMG6wnyRUsCfdotB7mjxw5Sm3OO54npkbaE_9m5vQtE_TOMx0kh31o/s400/IMG_0122.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projected Wall Image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiyyIgsq_TdlbLQ1gVBdwsIqCJxR6ayINqC0aJuBKiA2FRzrmLaFD4jKT9Nag0jgIVcyMGiPT5iQI8suftMLk-Xl0kgih2iD4AScHrSd_OwQvHcgevyM-Aujsoc-VWne2z7oZpPvMyrM/s1600/IMG_0166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGiyyIgsq_TdlbLQ1gVBdwsIqCJxR6ayINqC0aJuBKiA2FRzrmLaFD4jKT9Nag0jgIVcyMGiPT5iQI8suftMLk-Xl0kgih2iD4AScHrSd_OwQvHcgevyM-Aujsoc-VWne2z7oZpPvMyrM/s320/IMG_0166.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projected Wall Image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I recently received an
e-mail from a photographer friend (one of the best I know) asking me to give
him a crash course in photo composition. While my technical skills as a
photographer are “weak” (to be kind), I’m really good at composing images.
Those of you who know me know I hate technology; anything that requires me to
press more than two buttons sends me into a panic. But all those courses I took
in Two-Dimensional Design in school plus twenty-plus years of teaching art
history on the college level have sharpened my eye to the point where I can
take the most mediocre, banal image and crop it into a masterpiece. For many
years I was invited by local camera clubs to judge their shows, although I was
careful to explain that I didn’t know an f stop from a hole in the wall. But
what I could do was take the really bad photos they projected onto a screen
and, using my fingers, crop them into works of art. You could hear an audible
gasp from the audience when the miracle took place.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt7OUh53EZGicG4eMTRZd6wgza6q-K4_d5wJxEthsrtPXEq43DRluEp3P7ablIGCojQ3TTQRgsNmiE2S_M0Mc-jS_WGEu_Z5ztE15D8_QNmMtUrpr1xgjMDRmwv6legnMDEL3tkKBTlE/s1600/filename-1-a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="577" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt7OUh53EZGicG4eMTRZd6wgza6q-K4_d5wJxEthsrtPXEq43DRluEp3P7ablIGCojQ3TTQRgsNmiE2S_M0Mc-jS_WGEu_Z5ztE15D8_QNmMtUrpr1xgjMDRmwv6legnMDEL3tkKBTlE/s320/filename-1-a.jpg" width="540" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“Under the El“. Overlapping projections. 6’x8’</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">A few years after I
graduated art school, I decided I wanted to paint a series of urban scenes (a
la Ben Shahn.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bought a ‘point and
shoot’ Brownie camera for about $3 dollars plus a couple of rolls of black and
white film (all there was) and went down to the Lower East Side to photograph
architectural details. I never got around to the paintings and the photographs
along with their negatives went into a drawer where they inexplicably remained
untouched for over twenty years. As 2”x2”snapshots, they were truly awful, but
for some reason, I took them into the local camera store and had them enlarged.
The level of detail was extraordinary and I discovered that each print could be
composed/cropped into a half dozen reasonably successful photographs. In fact,
the quality of the enlargements, given the basic point and shoot technology of
my Brownie camera, was so remarkable that I was even able to make 6’ posters
without loss of detail. My negatives yielded a treasure trove of urban imagery
I’ve been mining ever since. A few years ago a cinematographer friend, CiCi
Artist and I made a movie out of the photos and around that time I put together
an illustrated book of Lower East Side memoirs provided by friends. I also
created and “environment” by projecting the photos onto four large gallery
walls, allowing visitors to become part of the scene. By the magic of judicious
cropping, my amateurish Brownie snapshots turned into a gift that keeps giving.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjir_zvLm2EczUGQ6nRUBlRU2cejU77Lng3VPxU3O75xJkt2DXCN1CRsDTDw3coDRLDw0QrWQbLMgCxBoQGXq3ENLQACMjj_tOlnZsDK8TE3JrfzGbvnawop-9h_D9kEKp27RNoMUCkKrY/s1600/IMG_0185.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="640" height="382" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjir_zvLm2EczUGQ6nRUBlRU2cejU77Lng3VPxU3O75xJkt2DXCN1CRsDTDw3coDRLDw0QrWQbLMgCxBoQGXq3ENLQACMjj_tOlnZsDK8TE3JrfzGbvnawop-9h_D9kEKp27RNoMUCkKrY/s400/IMG_0185.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projected Wall Image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-55252388407495858862019-10-11T18:18:00.002-07:002019-10-11T19:05:26.931-07:00POST # 177: HOW TO BE HAPPY: (lead a creative life)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4flQmSlQ94NRbdnJSQE0a2ecYKSAjprOmJ6oySiiGLNV_9Ft3omDQqZ1RBbTvAc1z4u_lhVidCQ1zScwvjmudaGs_KLqm-Nu5quMptUgO24rDFa4rZcnsniX1n3oWthmYhzuyBViZrFM/s1600/IMG_0871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4flQmSlQ94NRbdnJSQE0a2ecYKSAjprOmJ6oySiiGLNV_9Ft3omDQqZ1RBbTvAc1z4u_lhVidCQ1zScwvjmudaGs_KLqm-Nu5quMptUgO24rDFa4rZcnsniX1n3oWthmYhzuyBViZrFM/s400/IMG_0871.JPG" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projection 4’x3’</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYhJwUp-11aLqh3jSKRAaT5InK6WjqvTePfH67Uvxxdv2adHK0HiHfbAZndDyTl_UXRpD4lKGjmgCkaqiU7ZLHpyJUyH5owY1fq2n10Irrkz32BtXSPLdqBoquFr3gORsSvbGYQBEGPw/s1600/IMG_0861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="578" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNYhJwUp-11aLqh3jSKRAaT5InK6WjqvTePfH67Uvxxdv2adHK0HiHfbAZndDyTl_UXRpD4lKGjmgCkaqiU7ZLHpyJUyH5owY1fq2n10Irrkz32BtXSPLdqBoquFr3gORsSvbGYQBEGPw/s320/IMG_0861.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projection 6’x6’</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
In the car the other day, I
accidentally tuned into a Ted Talk on the value of a “creative life.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The speaker (didn’t get his name) was talking
about two psychologists who were familiar to me: Abraham Maslow, a founder of
the Family Therapy movement who died about fifty years ago along with a
present-day disciple of his, Mihaly Csikszentmihaly, creator of something known
as ‘Flow Theory’. It turns out that many of MC’s ideas came from Maslow. My
late husband, a PhD Clinical Psychologist, was a follower of Maslow,
considering his family therapy techniques to be far more helpful in “curing”
neurosis than Freud or Jung or any of the dwellers in the unconscious. Want to
be psychologically healthy? You need to find something creative you enjoy doing
and do it!<o:p></o:p></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;">Since
I tuned in late to the interview, I only caught the tail end of the discussion
on the therapeutic value of creativity.</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;">Both Maslow and MC (and my husband) believed in its “curative” powers.
Sam had great success with patients, accustomed to having therapists who probed
their unconscious and listened endlessly (at great cost and to no avail) to
their neurotic complaints. He focused on his client’s healthy parts, not his or
her neurosis. If the patient liked to write or play an instrument (whether he
was good at it or not) he or she soon learned that that was what Sam wanted to
hear about. He didn’t want their same old neurotic complaints. Therapy sessions
became joyful and positive and within a short period of time, change in the
“kvetcher” (Yiddish for complainer) was obvious to everyone. Maslow called it
“Self Actualization” and MC referred to “The Flow.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybD8FBbmlpDrFTvueoZw6ssa4YVc2wGS7vzb23DvUT-vXhIUtcWItxwRDRrTwXm3ClK-5wxmBnYudgU97zhdb3-Bd86Dn8UuHcQwPlBAV-BAf7h9WmeQPQ3Vj5yMfugALOACWgQHyocs/s1600/IMG_0777.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="514" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybD8FBbmlpDrFTvueoZw6ssa4YVc2wGS7vzb23DvUT-vXhIUtcWItxwRDRrTwXm3ClK-5wxmBnYudgU97zhdb3-Bd86Dn8UuHcQwPlBAV-BAf7h9WmeQPQ3Vj5yMfugALOACWgQHyocs/s400/IMG_0777.jpg" width="321" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projection 8’x6’</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When
Sam caught me whining (yes, I occasionally whine) he would open the studio
door, put his hands on my shoulders and shove me inside, slamming the door
behind me. “I know what you are doing! You’re just trying to distract me,” I
would yell. But after a few minutes in the studio I would notice something that
needed my attention: a painting on canvas, a large charcoal drawing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within fifteen or twenty minutes, my mood
lifted and I would begin to dance around the studio, brush in hand. Life was
good. It didn’t make problems go away; it just put them in perspective.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPojPLYOXM61FfNb5rJv8wdRB3Mn92KKZ_3ft7bBd_Wl1UaZsn6Uu1u9Ohd1yEj7ElMziVNVPPc_XPkw3mISmXJV1OQ7J-4911cTnT1jsKpn6llfWRbWpionxFmNkAoY-UHp_UtOOhd4/s1600/IMG_0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="502" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyPojPLYOXM61FfNb5rJv8wdRB3Mn92KKZ_3ft7bBd_Wl1UaZsn6Uu1u9Ohd1yEj7ElMziVNVPPc_XPkw3mISmXJV1OQ7J-4911cTnT1jsKpn6llfWRbWpionxFmNkAoY-UHp_UtOOhd4/s400/IMG_0045.jpg" width="313" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Projection 7’x4’</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Maslow
believed that what he called “Self Actualization” was critical to human
happiness and suppressing the creative part of ourselves was what makes us
neurotic. Doing what you love, writing, playing music, performing has a deep
therapeutic effect. My husband’s mantra was: “Activity binds anxiety and
Creative Activity makes it go away altogether.” So, take out your crayons or
your fiddle and get to work<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and read
some Maslow or Csikszentmihaly’s Flow Theory if you want to understand
why.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Renee
Kahn (now off to her studio to create)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-39169847797807169162019-09-06T17:43:00.002-07:002019-09-06T19:17:15.403-07:00POST # 176: THEATER OF THE CORRUPT<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2Z_8hslb3HJGlh0I8TFEdmnvkaxAQQL-mR7l977tna9Jgm_DPxAqFi_CC4Q9jYcamlBC2v0YHcKR6JazlRN3S6oPGwWWJD8RjHjA81u-1jrJpw44VV31qe2zMzKXS6_afF-3oBRdGsA/s1600/176-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="600" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl2Z_8hslb3HJGlh0I8TFEdmnvkaxAQQL-mR7l977tna9Jgm_DPxAqFi_CC4Q9jYcamlBC2v0YHcKR6JazlRN3S6oPGwWWJD8RjHjA81u-1jrJpw44VV31qe2zMzKXS6_afF-3oBRdGsA/s400/176-3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Before
my accident I completed my latest (last?) 12’ triptych, the fourth in the
series. I guess I’m fortunate not to be a commercial success; it makes it easy
for me to move on and explore new ideas. Every week I scan the art sections in
the New York Times in the vain hope that social satire will come back in style.
I think the last time there was anything like what I do was during the Great
Depression. There’s a lot of social “commentary” in the art world today, but it
primarily deals with gender or racial issues. Artists – and the galleries, the
museums and the collectors – are understandably reluctant to bite the
plutocratic hand that feeds them!<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGiTce3ahpYdzcejsUjMnlDBT6H0DATGajC5ehw0dEuTa5Vtm5auzfVQd6A3yjK0aRvHgX47Pd_qsUYarhc-H5I5QUWMbfOgZkkkaXBop7PIVBPsz3jNrmRpZfd-I8bcuwdIApFWVEls/s1600/176-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="919" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitGiTce3ahpYdzcejsUjMnlDBT6H0DATGajC5ehw0dEuTa5Vtm5auzfVQd6A3yjK0aRvHgX47Pd_qsUYarhc-H5I5QUWMbfOgZkkkaXBop7PIVBPsz3jNrmRpZfd-I8bcuwdIApFWVEls/s400/176-5.jpg" width="260" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My
attic contains a slew of giant Trump-like characters that I created a couple of
decades ago out of 8’ sheets of industrial cardboard. Now, all I have to do is
add a blond comb-over to the main man and I’ve got “The Donald” down cold. I
also portray his entourage: the bimbos, the goons, the corrupt moneymen and
politicians, the lawyers, the accountants and the bankers who make him
possible. Oddly enough, I had never heard of “Trump the Developer” at the time
I created this series, but I had met enough like him in my civic work as a
preservation consultant to create a “Theater of the Corrupt” without being
specific. Using an Exacto knife, I cut out close to two-dozen, six-foot
cardboard figures that could be carried around the stage (Brecht-like) or
placed on wooden stands in a gallery – using lighting to create giant shadows.
I’d encountered dozens of these characters while trying to save beautiful old
buildings from demolition. While expensively dressed and bejeweled, with phony
airs of culture and gentility (several were actually noted art collectors), I
soon discovered that when you got the trappings off, they were just thugs. They
came from different ethnic, educational and economic backgrounds, but they had
one thing in common: interfere with their profits in any way and they would
slit your throat. I never found a place willing to exhibit the figures (no
surprise) and I don’t even know where to look. No gallery owner or museum
director in his right mind would want to bite the hand that feeds him. It’s
okay for the art world to protest the mistreatment of transgenders and
minorities and women (all worthy causes) but don’t affect their bottom line by
making fun of customers.</span><br />
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6i6OnblBigH5uAV0mhiiXN3cm_Aj4hM0TLPLwrjmADjW8uBBF03uU_kWaSQ31MMpE5q9wKr6vumanM9PnpydMempz_gV4S10CUO9vb-5uO-ZV0_draDT3mBW8i6GiTTUAauY7UAayuUw/s1600/176-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="467" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6i6OnblBigH5uAV0mhiiXN3cm_Aj4hM0TLPLwrjmADjW8uBBF03uU_kWaSQ31MMpE5q9wKr6vumanM9PnpydMempz_gV4S10CUO9vb-5uO-ZV0_draDT3mBW8i6GiTTUAauY7UAayuUw/s400/176-2.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A few years afterward, I created a follow-up series: this time cutout paper dolls (male, X-rated, therefore never exhibited as well). I stripped my Real Estate Moguls of their Manafort-style clothing and covered their middles with removable towels. You’re better off not knowing what’s underneath.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Renee
Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-79926904405156192382019-06-01T18:10:00.001-07:002019-06-01T18:10:24.929-07:00POST #175: JUDGE OR BE JUDGED<br />
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
You may or may not know (or care), but I make it a point
not to enter juried art shows. There’s no way on God’s earth I am going to have
my work judged by some twit who has open contempt for “suburban art” and is
just trying to pick up a few bucks in the boonies. I just happened to be at
Silvermine on a day when artists who were rejected for their annual show had
come to pick up their work. They were a disappointed, humiliated lot and based
on what they were carrying out, not much worse that what had gotten in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one who has ever watched a juror at work
in one of those competitions (ten seconds, in, out) would ever waste hard
earned cash to enter, not to mention the soul-wrenching blow rejection gives to
their ego. Over the years, I’ve encountered jurors who literally didn’t know
what they were doing; they were picked because they had a “title” somewhere or
knew someone. I’ve encountered jurors who were looking only for what was “in,”
knew what was trendy and not much else. I’ve met jurors who gave preference to
people they knew (or wanted to know) and so on and so forth. </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bK76Qfbi3wd0v584c2Qp6bffWlWWAZCtwUh-HWrqK-PynoRchYJw6PW6ClMrO6pMhqfe5UEZEYFSQbarOObAawLQhgA_meItcQdMSQvV3Dok0DxrAfeZ1FMDdCKo3crXd4GXvrSjLBU/s1600/175-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="977" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bK76Qfbi3wd0v584c2Qp6bffWlWWAZCtwUh-HWrqK-PynoRchYJw6PW6ClMrO6pMhqfe5UEZEYFSQbarOObAawLQhgA_meItcQdMSQvV3Dok0DxrAfeZ1FMDdCKo3crXd4GXvrSjLBU/s400/175-2.jpg" width="327" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Having
said that, I confess, guiltily, that I was once a juror myself –only once. It
was a Biennial exhibit in 1997 at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. I got the
honor because they had just given me a one-man show and it was the least I
could do in return. I recently came across the catalogue and discovered my
forgotten Juror’s Statement. Here are a few paragraphs you might find
interesting.</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<h1>
Random Jottings by a Guest Juror<o:p></o:p></h1>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The
dangers inherent in trying to be a judge of art have been well known since the
mid 19<sup>th</sup> century when artists began to paint for their own
satisfaction rather than commissions from a selected clientele. Every artist we
deem significant today was turned down by the Salons of French academic art,
leading today’s art critics and connoisseurs to be exceedingly cautious in
judging work that is new and different. Even the 19<sup>th</sup> c. Salon
prizewinners, rich and famous in their time, are barely known today, while many
of the “refused” are now considered “geniuses” and given places of honor in
museums all over the world. What one generation values, i.e. perfection of
finish, high-minded themes, becomes trite and facile to the next. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">So
much for trying to judge art.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N-_7-9jH3KT1k-yhft38rN9NYHTFLHQf8PH1U9XliAWanNye-OTQ8uEi8HUEYvchvOl8ABhZTZPhHQm5iufn2waCoOF7kfGcwOwC7UxdG_46yjQmd4T_MV8FkfNQ3WPn8z3uOu2kaMI/s1600/175-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1390" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N-_7-9jH3KT1k-yhft38rN9NYHTFLHQf8PH1U9XliAWanNye-OTQ8uEi8HUEYvchvOl8ABhZTZPhHQm5iufn2waCoOF7kfGcwOwC7UxdG_46yjQmd4T_MV8FkfNQ3WPn8z3uOu2kaMI/s400/175-4.jpg" width="143" /></a><span style="font-size: 16pt;">I must confess that I assumed the
responsibility of selecting work for </span><b style="font-size: 16pt;">Biennial
1997</b><span style="font-size: 16pt;"> at the new Hampshire Institute of Art with a great deal of
trepidation. It’s not that I don’t feel knowledgeable: 50 years of studying,
creating and teaching art on the university level have given me more than
enough expertise. It’s just that I’ve also acquired some humility along the
way. Art does not have “right” answers,,,two and two do not always equal four.
Sometimes “five” is correct, or, there is no right answer. This is by way of
consolation to those who were not chosen; nothing disturbs me more than to
think that failure to be accepted into this show has discouraged anyone from
continuing to produce art. Unfortunately, I have known artists who stopped
working after being rejected for a show. If they could only have watched the
process, seen the difficulty - in some cases impossibility - of evaluating work
- they would not take acceptance or rejection as a valid critique.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">First
of all, I believe that it is crucial for an artist to show his or her work. No,
you’re not going to be ‘discovered’ like a Hollywood starlet at a soda
fountain, and your chances of selling anything are remote as well. But, it is
important for an artist to see his work out of the context of the studio, with
proper lighting, surrounded by work of his peers. By taking his art out of the
environment in which it was made, an artist is better able to evaluate it,
determine future direction. Also, whether one wants to admit it or not, it is
flattering to see one’s work in a prestigious exhibition, listed in a printed
catalog. The life of an artist has so little external monetary reward that even
small gratifications are to be seized upon and enjoyed.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">At
this point, I’d like to say a few words about how I selected the pieces for the
show. What were my criteria? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Most
work was chosen “viscerally,” that is, by instinct based on experience but
without any conscious thought. Later, when I started to analyze that process
for this essay, I discovered I was using primarily two criteria. The first was
whether the level of technical skill was appropriate to what the artist was
trying to convey. Van Gogh certainly did not have <u>or need </u>the skills of
a salon painter. On the other hand, a super-realist like Dali did need superb
drawing ability. Abstract Expressionists must be able to work directly from the
subconscious without any desire to create an image. In other words, I looked
for mastery of those techniques appropriate to the “message.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Technique
can be learned and lots of artists have technical facility, but it is craft not
art. Art is another matter; it requires developing a personal language. The
artist must have a rich <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">inner life</b>
and the ability to be a non-conformist. He must be able to think for himself.
In choosing pieces for this show, one of the first things I looked for was a
spark of originality, an idea I hadn’t seen a thousand times before. Most art
today – as it <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">always</b> has been – is a
pastiche of the fashionable and the familiar. Unfortunately, what passes for
creativity and originality in today’s art is “shock value.’ – a short-lived and
narcissistic attempt to gain notoriety in an exceptionally competitive
environment without standards.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
I found much to respect here – much to enjoy – and much to
admire. Thank you for giving me the honor of selecting the work for this show</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And, if you didn’t get
selected, please keep working. I don’t want you on my conscience! <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Renee
Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-21060181895150638462019-05-25T16:31:00.001-07:002019-05-25T17:32:27.395-07:00POST #174: THE BEST OF TIMES; THE WORST OF TIMES<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">
Dickens’ oft-quoted line about these being the best and
worst of times seems pretty descriptive of what’s going on now. There’s
obviously less poverty and actual suffering than ever before in human history;
most plagues have been conquered and modern medical advances are allowing us to
live longer, more comfortable lives. We can get free or almost free educations,
medical care. We can marry for love or not marry, have a fridge full of food,
own cars and possessions galore. Of course, there’s a way to go for many people
but for someone like me who was born during the Great Depression, when many of
my neighbors lived on a $25 weekly welfare check, I’ve got no complaints.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My parents couldn’t even begin to imagine my
lifestyle, let alone that of their grandchildren.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-WzWHvl57t5f1PY5vVmstB-kv_ERSVTgQHHB70joV__RXj5M3coaJ05xh0iaqbsYN52Vt58PXsqZWFR2dA110iwHNRLW789ZObTISgusMesCOX0rkRHRjGDwT8GR-ENMCNN9BlGkWxM/s1600/Lower-East-Side-Blue-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="1080" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw-WzWHvl57t5f1PY5vVmstB-kv_ERSVTgQHHB70joV__RXj5M3coaJ05xh0iaqbsYN52Vt58PXsqZWFR2dA110iwHNRLW789ZObTISgusMesCOX0rkRHRjGDwT8GR-ENMCNN9BlGkWxM/s640/Lower-East-Side-Blue-2.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Then
why are so many of the people I know so unhappy? I don’t think I’ve ever lived
in such a joyless time. Love relationships are more like hookups than caring
connections. Is it because of our present government? We have a leader who
reminds me of Mussolini: same pugnacious jaw, same arrogant posturing. (He made
the trains run on time) Where are the artists who are usually in the front line
against tyrants? Scared into silence by our President? He doesn’t worry about
them; he knows they’re just make-believe radicals, paper tigers who present no
real threat. The most interesting and well-attended art exhibit in New York
this winter was of work created in the early 1900s by a previously unknown
woman artist, Hilma af Klint, whose “inner voices” directed her to create the
first abstract paintings in the history of art. It tells us something that hers
is the most significant <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">new</b> work the
current art scene has to offer. Tens of thousands lined up this winter to get
into the Guggenheim Museum to see paintings she created for a circular temple
that existed only in her mind. How prescient was that! <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusnXGRboE-MnKzplI4bpN9q6hkzNMokNR9wI1Ajuhjf6uGFTvOu3D8gEOm6FXB2g4Dp-3GnZ14cwjybWFmLOtzzygbYBhOfOLCG1yG3AaUs6fCK0ppyksZdWYcLULrPTcOlikW55aeU0/s1600/Lower-East-Side.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="407" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjusnXGRboE-MnKzplI4bpN9q6hkzNMokNR9wI1Ajuhjf6uGFTvOu3D8gEOm6FXB2g4Dp-3GnZ14cwjybWFmLOtzzygbYBhOfOLCG1yG3AaUs6fCK0ppyksZdWYcLULrPTcOlikW55aeU0/s640/Lower-East-Side.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I’d
like to think we are on the verge of another Age of Aquarius such as the one we
had in the sixties, but so far there are no signs of it. Golden Ages generally
emerge after periods of repression or social upheaval, but where are the
artists who are capable of creating this bright new world? The art schools
certainly aren’t turning them out. The current crop is taught to look for
gimmicks, ways to get attention. One can’t afford to be a starving artist
nowadays; ideals need the backing of a trust fund. There are no more cold-water
flats in unsafe neighborhoods, only 4k to 6k a month luxury lofts. Paints cost
a fortune and canvas is out of sight. No wonder there’s so much detritus art;
at least the materials are inexpensive. When I get together with my artist
friends, all we talk about is commercial success; who got into what gallery,
sold something. Theory? Ideals? Bah, humbug!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Renee
Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">P.
S. The illustrations for this post were painted in 2012, abstractions derived
from photos I had taken of the Lower East Side before it got gentrified (and
boring.) <o:p></o:p>The panels are 68” tall and are grouped in two series of four. </span></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-77423880437822280282019-03-22T16:39:00.001-07:002019-03-22T19:11:58.558-07:00POST #173: SWEET DREAMS BABY<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3NTAt0QNaRttfJxevhkbU3VMrSCugdcjgQGQnXWT_Fhcr3Gul6VMNjrj6-lGR5_HOG9kiLClZjV6SqbnvhtpZb5y2lQ8p5yisyXXtibDfqrYA-lQAAM2v7MQPweMQJ-uUmx4voldj-s/s1600/IMG_0778-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="600" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv3NTAt0QNaRttfJxevhkbU3VMrSCugdcjgQGQnXWT_Fhcr3Gul6VMNjrj6-lGR5_HOG9kiLClZjV6SqbnvhtpZb5y2lQ8p5yisyXXtibDfqrYA-lQAAM2v7MQPweMQJ-uUmx4voldj-s/s400/IMG_0778-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">6’x9’ Projection</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I think I have interesting
dreams, but the problem is I don’t know for sure because I never remember them.
At one time, I did collect quite a few surreal examples in a little spiral
notebook I kept next to my bed, but in the past year or so, nothing of interest
has turned up and even if it did, I wouldn’t remember it. Last night however,
after sleeping poorly, I managed to doze off around 6 a.m. and woke up a couple
of hours later to this doozey: Maybe my readers can explain it; I know I can’t.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZzGyW9MgJD5E6DnjmFBcHzjoH4jabP1DY-c7LoUAuN6eY1wNwNrsQ889qHRYZlfn89ogp6BvLJTIx8hUvUc9O1ONZ_JVSREoHnqcL4WT4Ppa6wAspoeZruks00ZIWS5LhvLWKRmtKz3Q/s1600/IMG_0777-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="558" data-original-width="462" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZzGyW9MgJD5E6DnjmFBcHzjoH4jabP1DY-c7LoUAuN6eY1wNwNrsQ889qHRYZlfn89ogp6BvLJTIx8hUvUc9O1ONZ_JVSREoHnqcL4WT4Ppa6wAspoeZruks00ZIWS5LhvLWKRmtKz3Q/s400/IMG_0777-1.jpg" width="330" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6’x9’ Projection</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I find myself in the middle
of a crowd of sophisticated-looking people standing around in what appears to
be a dimly lit hotel ballroom There are tables with food everywhere. I have no
idea who the people are or why I am there. They certainly have no interest in
me; they’re busily chatting to one another. I suddenly realize that I am there
to direct a new movie and the people around me are my technical staff and
performers. They in turn have no idea of my importance and continue to ignore me
(a little old white haired lady.) I have never directed a film before, have no
idea what I am going to do but all I know is that I am in charge and have to
take over and get it done. I get up on a chair to address the crowd. I call
them to order, tell them <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">I</b> am the
director of the movie they are supposed to be working on, but they mostly
ignore me and continue chatting with their friends. All of a sudden, I feel a
surge of anger and power and I take charge. My normally soft voice changes into
what my children used to call my “Bronx Junior High School teachers voice,” the
one that could bring a class of screaming inner city twelve year olds to heel.
They once confessed to me that they were frightened of that voice, but it meant
that I was in control. And that’s what happened to the crowd in the ballroom.
There was a hush while I addressed them, explaining that that I didn’t know
what the movie was about, that I had no script but I knew I was in charge of
making it. A man in the audience began to heckle me and I fired him on the
spot. The crowd was stunned, staring at me in disbelief. Even in my sleep I
could feel that surge of anger and power; I was not going to tolerate any
disobedience or disrespect. It was MY movie and nobody was going to stop me! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18myyNlCjZJQS87atIV7N9iFjN23oDBMRx9eRRQ9lv82zQSfmMCzjWoFlhoYS3I35sfXf2sZOHSZPuCOQkEBPyHQZ8KM1P4CegPNSJQY_PCK2XEG_YcnHWX-HZBd0M5md1XXiCp_gYxM/s1600/IMG_0697-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="494" data-original-width="438" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi18myyNlCjZJQS87atIV7N9iFjN23oDBMRx9eRRQ9lv82zQSfmMCzjWoFlhoYS3I35sfXf2sZOHSZPuCOQkEBPyHQZ8KM1P4CegPNSJQY_PCK2XEG_YcnHWX-HZBd0M5md1XXiCp_gYxM/s320/IMG_0697-1.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">6"x9" Projection</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">To look at me, you might
think I’m a powerless eighty-eight year old lady, but when I get my Bronx
Junior High School teacher’s voice, NOBODY fucks with me! I grabbed my pencil
and pad and proceeded to write the dream down before it faded, (dream like)
away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">P.S. Now I’m curious. What
was the movie about?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Renee Kahn (Director)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-15883617090264394322019-02-26T18:44:00.000-08:002019-02-26T18:45:23.647-08:00POST #172: SIC TRANSIT GLORIA MUNDI<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">spent a gloomy winter
afternoon in my studio today cleaning out a box of old exhibit invitations that
date back decades. I had stacks of leftover invitations for a couple of dozen
one-man shows, some in prestigious places such as the Bruce Museum or the
Hurlbutt Library Gallery in Greenwich, others in small local venues, mostly for
my friends.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Since I’m not much of a
traveler, my work tended to stay close to home; the furthest north was a
one-man show of three-dimensional installations that took up the entire first
floor of a museum in Manchester (New Hampshire) My furthest venture south was a
small gallery in Georgetown, D.C. which I filled with larger than life-size
cardboard cutouts that satirized local politics. My shows all went completely
under the radar of the major art world, although the openings made for great
parties that got talked about for years.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo45RYpOmqEfQykSOpYzvVnZFMfegQKkiyAWUICBdDJrfJ-NDTZbPjjirSd71xCd_ihsr3DZr15Kf4I29ER0n2JJJm4zzGNO2MvQh_IvYx8yjiINBefPoX6jQNhOPRp1C8nFtomXOgtwg/s1600/Scan+1-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="792" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo45RYpOmqEfQykSOpYzvVnZFMfegQKkiyAWUICBdDJrfJ-NDTZbPjjirSd71xCd_ihsr3DZr15Kf4I29ER0n2JJJm4zzGNO2MvQh_IvYx8yjiINBefPoX6jQNhOPRp1C8nFtomXOgtwg/s320/Scan+1-1.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Some of the invitations were
for exhibits I barely remember but was pleasantly surprised when memories of
them came back. One of my favorites was a collection of a hundred or so tacky
supermarket boxes filled with Xeroxed photos of street scenes with my unsavory
figures inside. They were shown piled up in the oversized windows of a gallery
on Prince Street; everyone passing stopped to look, crowds gathered. A friend
who worked nearby told me about a co-worker coming in late from lunch and
explaining that she had lost track of time staring at stacks of inhabited boxes
in the window of a nearby art gallery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGyvoytDBoMzBdWtptZvmnvzKfAbCYU-bZVBKHUpmi3d4_9gdnjU93BLL1o6sfCPrd6QrhUxo_Gvd6mqZepu2pg73_yJPZWttD7kqLptXWr8wQcRPutWp4TKfrRPxA70x-9kyEPDdvEg/s1600/Scan+4-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="792" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGyvoytDBoMzBdWtptZvmnvzKfAbCYU-bZVBKHUpmi3d4_9gdnjU93BLL1o6sfCPrd6QrhUxo_Gvd6mqZepu2pg73_yJPZWttD7kqLptXWr8wQcRPutWp4TKfrRPxA70x-9kyEPDdvEg/s400/Scan+4-2.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The boxes were also a big hit
at a show of a group of slick Westport artists who called themselves “the
Boxists,” only unlike my gloomy street discards, they created finely finished
work visibly derived from Joseph Cornell. They hated my work on sight
(“garbage!”), wouldn’t give me any wall space and forced me to place my boxes
in a giant, sloppy pyramid in the middle of the gallery floor. The critic for
the New York Times (they had critics who came to local art shows in those days)
reported that she would “fall on her ball point pen” if people really looked
like mine. Nevertheless, my pile of detritus, was generally agreed to be the
best (and most original) work in the show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFdGq_QKxl7GrJYAvFTM3uOu-ZvbezWQSzbJ-oGGxs6jKzV5n9zH0yQ_ToFM5qR5eb_liOajiBewo9Yi92fnI0JQW28wzP-guNIYo3UHNrTSPv4azIiRueWGMwM4E-sLhOk7ggxiBT5w/s1600/Scan+8-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="393" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqFdGq_QKxl7GrJYAvFTM3uOu-ZvbezWQSzbJ-oGGxs6jKzV5n9zH0yQ_ToFM5qR5eb_liOajiBewo9Yi92fnI0JQW28wzP-guNIYo3UHNrTSPv4azIiRueWGMwM4E-sLhOk7ggxiBT5w/s400/Scan+8-1.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My favorite incident – it happened dozens of
years ago when I was just beginning to exhibit my work – took place at a
one-man show of my paintings held at the Bruce Museum in Greenwich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in my “Suburban Satire” period, trying
to outgross George Grosz. At the end of the show, when I took my work down, I
found a piece of paper tucked behind one of the paintings. In a childish scrawl
someone had written: “I HATE your work.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Now that’s what every artist
wants: honest criticism!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Renee Kahn<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6900892158594370963.post-65141135459661880692019-01-04T17:02:00.003-08:002019-01-04T17:02:43.331-08:00 POST #171: HILMA AND ME<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">A
couple of years ago, I came across a May, 2013 copy of Frieze magazine, that
featured the work of an early twentieth century Swedish artist I’d never heard
of before, Hilma af Klint (1882-1944). I guess the “af” is the equivalent of
the German “von.” To say that I was blown away is an understatement. Although I
taught Art History for over two decades at the University of Connecticut, I had
never heard of her. In fact, until recently, nobody seems to have heard of her.
She was turning out large, brilliantly colored biomorphic abstractions several
years before Kandinsky, Mondrian and Malevich did their innovative work. Not
only did she predate the triumverate credited with the creation of Abstraction,
she (in my opinion) outdid them all. The irony is, outside of a small circle of
Swedish mystics, no one knew she even existed. After her death at age 81, at
her request, more than 1,200 items went into storage for over 20 years. She
wasn’t sure the world was ready for them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35_3n1fnZmJSoFWoaLJ08MMT-V-pfEUIocnjLcY1quB2GFC6kX-b6e-MiKU0o4Jk6cX-pBRif7swmaR-HhH8p2czUoGczfKY_6oK1JuUe3Nh165yBlb5sg3D0rjCIW6YnNESe3k0gh04/s1600/IMG_0552-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="409" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg35_3n1fnZmJSoFWoaLJ08MMT-V-pfEUIocnjLcY1quB2GFC6kX-b6e-MiKU0o4Jk6cX-pBRif7swmaR-HhH8p2czUoGczfKY_6oK1JuUe3Nh165yBlb5sg3D0rjCIW6YnNESe3k0gh04/s400/IMG_0552-1.jpg" width="260" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled - 72"x44" Mixed media on canvas</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">I’ve
often complained about the art world’s need for “tokens’ to show how liberal
and inclusive it is. There’s plenty to choose from: neglected minority artists,
mixed genders, women, yes, even women. Unfortunately, these tokens are often
just that. Their work, while it might be good, would never warrant that degree
of attention if the artist were a plain vanilla, white male. True equality in
the art world can only happen when every artist is judged on the merit of his
or her work, not the need for tokens. And here comes Hilma af Klint, a genius
who could make it without a boost from the gender establishment – even if it
took almost a century for it to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For
women artists especially, it’s instructive to look at how she was able to
produce the body of work she did, several thousand pieces of work carefully
archived by her wealthy family, (she died in 1944).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Af Klint was academically trained and
financially successful in the popular early 20<sup>th</sup> century “en plein
air” painting style. To earn money, she created beautifully rendered misty
landscapes, botanical studies and conventional portraits that sold well, but
her serious work was influenced by Spiritualism reflected in the teachings of
people like Rudolph Steiner and Madame Blavatsky, a Russian psychic. Kandinsky,
along with other artists and intellectuals of the pre World War I era was also
influenced by Blavatsky, but af Klint’s abstractions predate his by several
years. I doubt he ever saw her work since I am unaware of any exhibits outside
her own small group of five women artists who held séances and were interested
in automatic writing (predating the surrealists by at least twenty years. She
never married, never had children and was financially able to afford the giant
spaces needed to create and store her work. (See Blog Post # 64, “The Pram in
the Hall.”)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was also part of a
supportive group of women artists and fellow mystics. (I’d love to see the work
of the others, if any has survived). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLmGnMRgsHSVm-tswF5PdDmEUaaBpTeX1IyqwYnoAJCayuX2P2B7FaqNm76610o0d5DP1bLF5fPVd7qXhbXEXgjyjh9XRgdo-dSKGLerg1yQHh4Qg2n0HHvuRXtAXnl_PO-mDAebQzi50/s1600/IMG_0553-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="632" data-original-width="428" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLmGnMRgsHSVm-tswF5PdDmEUaaBpTeX1IyqwYnoAJCayuX2P2B7FaqNm76610o0d5DP1bLF5fPVd7qXhbXEXgjyjh9XRgdo-dSKGLerg1yQHh4Qg2n0HHvuRXtAXnl_PO-mDAebQzi50/s400/IMG_0553-1.jpg" width="270" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Untitled - 72"x44" Mixed media on canvas</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Hilma
Af Klint is no token. She was a genius on her own right and an innovator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her work, unlike most of the abstract art we
see today, was not meant to be decorative, filled with faux emotion and pretty
color; it has spiritual depth, an alternate universe that came from a true
intellectual and religious search, not a superficial desire to create a
conversation pieces to hang in a zillionaire’s dining room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two hundred or so oversized water color
and gouache paintings she created between 1906-1915 for an imaginary temple –
with a break in between to care for an ailing mother - are only equaled in
modern times by Rothko, and even he (although I love his work) doesn’t equal
her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><b>Check out af Klint’ when you get a chance, especially
the large pieces in the Guggenheim rotunda. They make you realize the emptiness
of most what we’re looking at today.</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Renee Kahnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12673402329282414720noreply@blogger.com0